


When We Return, Hold Me Close

by MiHnn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, broody jon and hopeful sansa, post 6x09, post 6x10, show verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 09:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 34,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7262332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/pseuds/MiHnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were strangers once, so long ago. They are so much more now, with loss and grief and pain between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pride: The Art of Self-Importance

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to take part in the Game of Ships Challenge based on the 7 deadly sins. So each chapter will be dealing with a separate sin. 
> 
> This story is Post 6x09 and it's based off the show-verse. So the language is a bit more colloquial than what I'm used to for my ASOIAF fics. I felt the need to show the continuity from the Jon/Sansa scenes we've had so far, that have made my shipper heart burst for joy!
> 
> Hopefully, the 7 chapters will be updated daily. 
> 
> R + L = J (obviously)

Her fingers feel brittle as she touches the cold stone of the castle. She thinks of her mother, her father, of Arya, Bran and Robb. She thinks of Rickon, with a pain in her chest so great she is yet to notice the men and women who are being grabbed by their leather to be taken to the courtyard where Jon would pass his sentence. 

She remembers too much and yet not enough. She remembers the passing moments of her childhood that she should have paid close attention to. What did Arya call her that one time she told mother of Arya not attending her lessons? What did Robb whisper in jest when he saw a girl from the market? What did Bran want to show her, when she had dismissed him curtly to giggle like a little girl with Jeyne Poole? Rickon! Rickon was but a babe. Her excuses had been many as to why Mother should have looked after him and not her. 

Sansa’s steps feel slow as she makes her way to the chamber she once called hers. It’s practically filth, the cleanliness a far cry from what it had once been under her charge. She steps in calmly, her heart beating too fast to comprehend why, and almost as quickly, she turns on her heel and leaves. Soon, she will have to deal with clearing out the chambers and making her home a memory of what it once was. Today is not that day.

She decides, faster than she realises, that she must find him. She must find Jon. 

She had spent countless waking moments dreaming of the day she steps back into Winterfell, never knowing how it would truly feel. The tears sting her eyes as she moves fast, ordering anyone in her way to tell her where he is. The need to see him is too great. The need to be comforted, even greater. 

She finds him standing alone in front of the chamber that had once been his, his face void of expression, but his eyes sad. He doesn’t acknowledge her as she moves to slowly stand beside him. She keeps her hands across her belly like a trueborn daughter, her fingers twitching slightly to take his hand in hers. But they are yet to be that comfortable with each other. They are yet to act like true brother and sister. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispers, his voice tired and his shoulders slumped. 

She knows what he speaks of. How could she not? 

As her lips part to defend herself, he turns to face her. His eyes are filled with unbearable sadness. He has yet to clean himself of the blood and mud that coats his face. He has shed his armour, but the leather underneath is sliced and worn. He eyes her with an intensity she has seen before in her father, whilst his shoulders stay low as if he has only lost a war. 

“I didn’t know they were coming,” she says softly, her gaze pleading to be understood. 

“You wrote him.” He says it curtly, almost like an accusation and her expression hardens. 

“What would you have had me do?” 

Jon’s eyes narrow into slits and Sansa feels the need to step back. But she does not. She stands her ground and eyes him just as he eyes her. 

“We _needed_ a bigger army. We _needed_ more men.”

“You think I didn’t know that? Those men who died today were under _my_ charge. They were my friends.”

“They died because they believed in our cause.”

“They wouldn’t have had to die had you told me—”

“I didn’t know they were coming!”

She watches as Jon heaves, his being holding in the anger that she knows he wants to release on her. 

“Things would have been different had you told me about what you had done,” he says softly, his tone deadly. 

Her own voice trembles with anger as she says softly, “You didn’t consult me either.”

He steps back, his expression one of offence. “This is _my_ army. I am their Commander. Any decision that is to be made must be made through me and no one else.” 

“You _are_ their Commander,” she says sternly. “But you are not mine.” 

She sees the way his eyes widen, the way his back stiffens and she knows, before he does, that he intends to leave her. She places her hand on his arm to stay him, and his eyes fall on the place where her fingers lightly touch him, as her own voice shakes ever so slightly regardless of the strength it holds. 

“Now, if you’re done being insulted by the very act that helped save us, simply because it didn’t help your self-importance, there is another matter we must tend to.” 

He looks too tired to argue, which is why, when she takes his hand in hers, he lets her lead him with mild opposition. The castle is busy with Jon’s army taking apart anything and everything that once belonged to a Bolton and his Bastard, but the kitchens are empty. 

Jon does not complain as she places him on a seat where, she used to once, a long time ago, eat lemon cakes as they were made. Jon watches her with tired eyes as she fills a bucket with water and find scraps of clean cloth from near the pile of wood. He says nothing as she sits beside him, her fingers working quickly to soak the cloth before she turns towards him. 

He needs a bath, a proper one, but Sansa knows that he will not rest until his men are tended to first. 

“For now, this will have to do,” she says softly, her fingers lightly taking his face in her hand as she firmly tries to wipe the blood from his cheeks. 

It takes a moment, but Jon’s eyes widen before he flinches away from her. “I can do that,” he says stiffly.

Sansa leans forward to take his face more firmly, her actions without question as she continues to wipe the blood from him. “I know you can.” She focuses on her task. Keeping her fingers busy helps to keep her mind at ease. “You’ve done enough.” Her eyes meet his briefly before she goes back to the task at hand. “Let me do this for you.” 

She can feel him watching her, an uneasiness settling inside her from the words still to be said. But he says nothing as she continues to wipe his face, his neck, wincing once in a while when she gently touches a cut that is still to be healed. 

Yet, she makes a mistake that encourages him to speak. Her eyes meet his and she finds herself unable to look away, even as her fingers gently rest on the side of his face. 

“What do we need to give them?” he asks gently. “I don't know if we can return the generosity they have shown us today.”

Sansa falters, her thoughts falling on the man who she once called ‘Father’. “They don't require anything from you.”

“And you?” Jon asks forcefully. “Do they require anything from you?”

She sees his fear like she sees his determination. The straight line of his back and the fire in his eyes say the same thing. _He will not have you. I will not let you be taken away again._

Her smile is small. “I am not leaving.” She takes his hand, now cut and muddy and strong, in hers. “I am _never_ leaving.” 

He nods, but she can see that he doesn’t believe it. She decides to appease him. 

She sighs, her tone light. “I should have told you.”

He smiles, which makes her smile wider.  
“Aye, you should have. And I should have consulted you.” 

She holds his hand tighter in hers. “It doesn’t matter now. Winterfell is ours. We have our home.” 

“Aye.” He smiles sadly. “There is a Stark in Winterfell once again.”

She feels the familiar sting behind her eyes and she knows that the tear rolls freely down her cheek. “No,” she says in a broken whisper. “There are two.”

As his eyes widen and his lips part to say more, Sansa leans forward to embrace him, her lips touching his cheek in a long kiss that she hopes conveys how much she truly loves him. She hears the way his breath hitches, she feels the way his chest constricts beside her own, before his own arms circle her to pull her dangerously close. 

This is how they stay, until Tormund loudly announces his presence with a howl.


	2. Greed: To Want and Want and Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and review ^_^

There are fires burning in Winterfell. There is music in the air, and the happy singing of soldiers as they drink their ale in the name of their fallen comrades, are faint to Jon’s ears. Yet, he stands in the dungeon of his father’s house, watching the dogs of another Bastard as they rip the last of his flesh from bone.

“The guards found him like this,” Davos says, his throat clearing before he continues. “What would you have us do?” 

Jon watches as the starving beasts lick the bones they have between their paws clean, the leather and cloth and boots lying forgotten amongst the carnage. “Let them finish their dinner. His bones have no other place here unless it’s inside his dogs’ belly.” 

Jon prepares to leave when Davos’ words stay him. “And the dogs?”

Briefly, Jon thinks of killing them swiftly with arrows to the heart. Would that not be a fitting end to the last of that Bolton Bastard's possessions? “Give them to Tormund." He says instead. "If these beasts can be tamed, I know of no other who can be of such a use.” 

Jon does not wait for Davos to say more, as he leaves the dungeon and the bones of a man who’s death he has dreamt of countless times while at the Wall. 

The night is cold, warmer than the wall, brisk and crisp as if the North knows that a new day is upon it. He hears the laughing, the jesting, the singing of songs that are reminiscent of his memory of Winterfell before he left. For a moment, he could almost imagine a great feast was upon them, while Lady Catelyn requests him to be at the stables, as fitting a Bastard of the North. 

Arya would be by his side, on most nights, demanding that he come inside, regardless of what her lady mother thinks. Robb would bring him ale with Theon by his side, they would tease him and speak of the young girls in the village. Rickon, following Bran, would get bored with the adults and come to the stables to play with him. Sansa… Sansa would not have cared. She would be inside the Great Hall with her mother, and Jon would not have thought of her. Not once. 

Tonight, she is all he thinks of. 

He is weary. His bones feel frail and his skin feels taught under leather too tight. He needs to sleep, yet his mind demands him to find her first. 

She is in the kitchens, near the hearth, a bowl between her fingers. Not for the first time, Jon thinks of her as pretty, as the firelight causes her hair to almost glow against the grim stones. 

There are women moving fast around Sansa, trying to feed an army that is greater than their provisions. She stays seated, unaffected by the noise and yelling that is going over her head. 

As he takes the seat beside her, she raises her head, her smile small and welcoming.  
“Have you eaten?”

Jon shakes his head, grateful for the warmth of the bowl of soup Sansa gives him. He takes a generous sip before handing the bowl back to her. 

She lightly pushes the bowl back into his hands. “I can’t eat. And you need it more than I do.”

Her glance falls on the fires once again, her expression resigned, yet Jon finds himself unable to stop looking at her. 

“Thank you,” she says it too softly for him to catch it at first. She keeps her eyes on the fire and away from his. “I know you didn’t have to, so thank you.”

“Did it help?” He knows what it means to get your vengeance. He knows what it means to lose a part of the man you once were to get a part of you that was lost. He knows what it means to be unsatisfied because the pain that was caused never truly leaves you. 

She pauses for a while, her thoughts private. “A little,” she whispers finally. “But not really.” 

When she faces him, her eyes are wild, wilder than he has ever seen before. “I want him back. I want him so I can burn him. So I can hang him. I want to see his head cut from his body and see his horses quarter him. I want to see him boiled in hot oil and bleed to death, slowly. I want to see his dogs rip him apart again and again and again.” 

Her eyes widen in panic before she turns her face towards the fires once more. He can see the way she tries to calm the rapid beating of her heart, how she tries to settle the beast of vengeance that is still inside her. 

“What he did to you…” Jon says cautiously, his voice hard.

“No one should ever do to another,” Sansa whispers. She pulls her furs around her tighter, her fingers shaking despite how tightly she buries them in her cloak. 

“Aye,” Jon says softly. “But you got your vengeance, which is more than any other person he has ever met. He is _dead_ because of you. And he suffered for what he did to you.”

She eyes him hopefully, reminding Jon of the little girl she once was. “Did he suffer enough?” 

To this, he has no words. 

“I want more, Jon. Sometimes, I want to see him suffer more than I need to breathe. I want more. He has taken something from me that I may not get again.” She looks away from him, her tone sad. “I don’t feel safe anymore. I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again.” 

Jon leans forward, the bowl of soup forgotten on the floor as he causes her to look at him. “You are safe now.”

She rolls her eyes, which makes him feel a ghost of a smile touch his lips. That is a sign of the old Sansa within her, the little girl who believed in knights and songs more than she believed in other tales. 

“You are safe with me,” he says sincerely, his voice rough. “Do you doubt that I would protect you?”

“No, but—”

“Then don’t doubt me. I swore that he will never touch you again, and he didn’t. I swear to you now, that you will never be touched again by anyone, unless you want them to. You will not be taken away from Winterfell, unless you want to leave. I swear, on my honour, that no one will ever hurt you so long as I live.” 

Her smile is sad as she places a warm hand on his cheek. “Do you swear to live? No matter what?”

Jon hesitates a moment before his own hand covers her hand that rests upon his face. Her hand is soft, unlike his, long delicate fingers that caress his cheek. “Aye,” he says softly. “I swear.” 

He knows that words are mere embellishment without action. He knows that he is a man of the North, and so his words cannot come easily. His words mean nothing without action and so these words cannot be said unless there is truth behind them. 

She understands, he knows, from the way her eyes widen before she let’s her hand fall from his cheek. 

“Don’t swear that,” she says harshly. “No one can. Father couldn’t, neither could Robb or my mother. Rickon never had the chance to swear it.” 

Before he can say more, she speaks. 

“I _know_ you can protect me. I _know_ that you will. I never doubted it, not for a second. But I can’t feel safe when I’m only with you,” she says desperately. “I _need_ to feel safe away from you too. Do you understand that?” 

He does, and so he says softly, “Aye. What do you need of me?”

She smiles as she takes his hands in hers. “Nothing. You have been perfect, regardless of how awful I was to you when we last lived here.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” 

She laughs softly. “Do you remember the stories old nan used to tell us? About the knight who used to do what was right no matter what? I always thought that every knight was just as they said in songs. I didn’t know that they could be so much different, so cruel…”

“Sansa…”

“But, you are like those knights in songs. Father was right to be proud of you.”

Jon looks away, his chest tight from the mere memory of his father. 

Sansa moves her head low so that their eyes meet. “He _was_ proud of you. You do know that, don’t you?”

Jon stares back at her, at this girl who once called him Bastard even before she knew what the word meant. “It will get better. I know.”

Sansa smiles as her hands slip out from his. “I hope so.” 

As she takes her leave, Sansa places a light kiss on his cheek. Jon does not mean to close his eyes at the mere touch, but he does.


	3. Lust: Simply For A Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the most PG entry for 'Lust' in the history of prompts. You have been warned. 
> 
> And why, yes, Old Lam is fictional. As for Old nan, I believe she died in the Dreadfort, with Beth. :(
> 
> Also, thank you to all who read and review. :D

It is a fortnight past, before Sansa can walk into the bedchamber that once belonged to her lady mother and lord father. The furs have been changed, the chamber cleaned, almost daily, and yet, she knows that she could never sleep in such a place. She is keeping it for Bran, she tells herself. She is keeping it for Arya. 

The sting behind her eyes are just as strong as when she visits the bedchamber that had once belonged to Robb, and the smaller bedchamber that Rickon would have someday grown out of. They are all perfect, dressed in the Stark colours with furs used in the North. She knows that there is nothing sensible about keeping the bedchambers as it once was. Yet, for a while, she wanted to pay enough respect to the memories of her family, as only few have been buried in the crypt, as they deserve. 

She no longer wears the silks that her lady mother once did. She no longer wants anything that reminds her of the South. She wears the wool dresses that are warm in the North, and just as Jon helps their people rebuild Winterfell to what it once was, she helps in the kitchens and the library. She does menial tasks that she would not have done as a child. Yet, through these tasks she befriends all those who have fought for the Stark name. She learns their names and their faces, and she learns that they help make her home different and bearable. 

It is past a moon’s turn before Sansa recognises Winterfell for what it once was, as when she was a girl. It is past a moon’s turn when she finally feels the last of Ramsay Bolton in any way as she walks through the halls. It is then when she laughs. When she loudly, truly, laughs. 

Jon, who has been helping the men rebuild the damaged walls, shakes himself to rid the mud from his body as he stands precariously amongst the pigs. He is caked with mud and muck, his eyes narrowed at Sansa who laughs loudly with the men. 

“You think that’s funny?” he growls, as he tries to step away from the pigs and walk towards her. 

Sansa laughs louder, as she hugs the bag of flour she is to take to the kitchens, tighter to her chest. She laughs louder still, just as the men do, when Jon slips as he tries to step around a pig. “I do. A little,” she says breathlessly. Her stomach hurts with laughter when the pig gives an angry grunt and rams it’s head against Jon’s leg. He nearly falls, which makes the men laugh just as loud as Sansa. 

When Jon finally steps close to her, his hair muddied, his face indifferent, the only trace that truly warns her of his intentions are in his eyes. Then, with a quirk of his lips, he steps towards her. 

Her eyes widen as she steps back from him. “No, Jon… No.” 

His smile widens as he steps even closer, amongst the hooting and hollering of the men who had been laughing just a moment ago at the plight of their Lord Commander. 

“Jon…” she says in a warning tone as she continues to step away from him. “You willl ruin my dress.”

“Aye,” he says confidently as he steps closer, “It is a pretty dress.” 

She turns to run just as he quickens his pace. He catches her from the back easily, his arms holding her tight around her waist and causing her to drop the bag of flour in a horrid mess. “Jon!” Sansa squeals amidst her own laughter when he rubs his dirty face along the side of her face, her neck, her back, even as the men and women around them giggle at the Lord and Lady sharing their antics for all of Winterfell to see. 

He lets her go quickly, his expression smug. “There. Now you look better.” 

Sansa hears the haughty laughter of the men behind Jon, as she narrows her eyes at him. The moment he turns to return to the work at hand, she picks up the bag of flour and pours the contents of it over his head to the many hoots and laughter of everyone in Winterfell. 

“There,” she says just as smugly. “Now we’re even.” 

She cannot stop the laughter that comes from within her as he turns to face her slowly. He looks horrendous with brown mud and white flour from the top of his head, right down to his boots. But, Jon laughs, and she giggles, as he promises that she will pay for her betrayal before he returns to the work he has to complete. 

Sansa does not quite notice the happy smile that plays on her lips as she continues her duties for the rest of the day. 

Her happy countenance continues, even until Jon enters her bedchamber, as he has done for many days, so that she may read to him before they take leave for the night. 

He enters with weary shoulders, his smile small when he sees her, even as his eyes give away his fatigue. 

“You’re tired,” she says in disapproval. She watches him as he winces while he sits on the rug near the fire. Sansa stays seated on the long chair where she usually does. As her lady mother once taught her to do. 

“Aye, building walls is tiring work.” He shifts, groaning slightly so that his shoulder lightly touches her knee. 

“You need not do that work. We have plenty of men.”

He looks over his shoulder at her with a knowing smile. “You need not work in the kitchens.”

“I don’t do much in the kitchens. Old Lam doesn’t let me do anything. She only asks me to fetch things, and that is only to make me feel better.”

His chuckle is low as he turns his face back to the fire, his shoulder bumping her knee slightly. 

“We can read another day,” she says softly. 

But Jon shakes his head, his very action weary. “No. I like hearing your voice as you read to me.” 

Sansa smiles, her cheeks warm. 

“Well then, if that is what you wish…” She gracefully climbs unto the floor beside him, tucking her knees under her as a lady would. “Come.” She taps her lap and looks at him expectantly. 

Jon eyes her with surprise, his eyes confused by her actions. But, Sansa thinks of her Little Robin, and how he used to rest his head on her lap as she read to him on days he was particularly out of sorts. 

He means to voice his objection, but she speaks before he can. “I am not reading to you unless you learn to rest when you need it. Old nan would not hear of it.”

He laughs at the memory of the woman. “Aye. She would have boxed my ears and told Father that I was stubborn.” 

“You _are_ as stubborn as Father.” 

“And you, as stubborn as your Mother.”

Her smile falls swiftly, as does his. She thinks that the loss of her good spirits is what makes him lower himself so that his head rests on her knee.

“You should read quick, lest I fall asleep. Sam tells me that it is hard to move me once I rest my eyes.” 

“Are you heavy then?” she asks good-naturedly, earning a hearty laugh from him.

“Aye. As heavy as a horse.”

A small laugh escapes her as she opens the book they are to continue. She begins her reading from the place they stopped from the night before, her words soothing, regardless of how tedious the subject is, that she reads.

It doesn’t take long before she feels the heaviness of Jon’s head on her. She pauses in her reading to observe the man, once a boy, who has fallen peacefully asleep on her lap. 

The moments where she can truly study him, without his knowledge, are few and far between. She has seen him more in the passing months than she had seen him when she was a child. She remembers what he was like; always brooding, his expression far from happy or joyous as Robb and Theon’s were. 

She has seen him smile and laugh so much more with each passing day. He makes jokes, he teases her, and he laughs heartily with happy eyes. Where was this happiness when they were young? Why was it reserved only for Arya and Robb? 

She watches the light of the fire as it shadows and lightens his features. He is handsome, she knows. Even after they claimed Winterfell, she would be amiss not to hear the giggles young girls whisper as they see him walk by. Gently, Sansa touches the scar across his face. She knows the stories as told by the Wildlings of how he was once a Crow that became a Wildling. Her fingers brush against his closed lids, the bone of his cheek, and then his jaw, the backs of her fingers being scratched against the stubble of his beard. 

He is older, and she has seen it in his eyes, just as surely as she can see it in his face. His face is hardened, not boyish anymore. His shoulders broader and his arms strong. And his lips…

Sansa’s fingers pause as the tips of her fingers rest on his lips. She wonders, briefly, what it would be like to kiss him. She wonders if his burned hand would rest on her cheek and if he would kiss her sweetly, just as he has kissed her on the cheek time and again. She wonders if—

Her breath hitches as she pulls her hand away, a shiver running through her body as she feels the panic rise in her chest. 

She thinks of him as a brother, nothing more. Her thoughts were not her own. They could not have been. She has been through so much, it would not do well for her body to betray her in this manner. She has been hurt and abused and beaten. Yet, with her half-brother, she feels none of these things. 

She feels safe around him, that is all. Her panic is for naught. Lightly, she places her palm on his chest, studying the rising and falling of his breath. 

Yes, she thinks, as she feels her nerves begin to calm. He is her brother and she feels safe. That is all. 

She focuses on this one thought, her hand on his chest, as she falls into a blissful slumber.


	4. Envy: The Resentful Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. :)
> 
> Also, Jon is an idiot. I can't help that.

They all call him Jon. Those who have fought with him call him Lord Commander while others, who have known him since he was a babe, call him Jon without malice. No one calls him Bastard. He has not heard the name, not once, since he had stormed the walls of Winterfell and brought the Starks back to the North. They don’t call him _Bastard_ intending to ignore him, as it was when he was a child in Winterfell long ago. They don’t spit out _Bastard_ , the way his brothers at the Night’s Watch have done.

 

He does not hear the name said, just as he does not hear the words _Lord Snow_. He does not hear it, nor does he read it, until a raven with swift wings brings news bearing the Lannister seal.

 

Aye, the words are proper. They make a list of demands and say what they need with threats that will come to pass. It is all written politely with requests masking its demand.

 

He has forgotten, Jon realises, the naked truth of what is yet to come. He has been building walls and listening to the voice of his sister at night. He has been claiming Winterfell as his home, even though Robb was the one who was supposed to be in his position. _Ned Stark’s Bastard son_ , the letter says. That is all it takes for Jon to remember that Winterfell is not his. It has never been his and he has been a fool for far too long to think of it as such.

 

There is a moment when he considers keeping the letter to himself. He could burn it easily in fire and watch the seal melt. Yet, the thought of Sansa’s disapproval stays his hand.

 

She smiles at him now. She smiles at him now more than she has ever done. He is not as close to her as he once was with Arya, Robb, Bran or Rickon. Yet, with each passing day, they speak more of what had happened to them after they left Winterfell, her stories enough to crush any hope that he once had in his heart that she had been safe longer than he.

 

His countenance is stormy when he goes to her bedchamber that night. She knows, before he says the words.

 

“What is it?”

 

He seats himself near her, on the rug near the fire as he usually does, his burned hand giving her the letter the raven brought him. He watches as she reads it, the furrow of her brow worrisome.

 

“They cannot mean this,” she whispers, and he knows, that she is reading it again, as he had done. “Winterfell has been taken. It’s claimed by House Stark.”

 

Jon is tired. So tired that his voice holds the weariness he feels. “It’s not held by House Stark. Not when the Castle is being held by a Bastard and a girl.”

 

She shakes her head, her expression one of denial. “They say that Ramsay Bolton is the true Warden of the North. That we must surrender the Castle to House Lannister by the Order of the King of Westeros. This can’t be.”

 

“The Kingslayer is with Walder Frey,” Jon says softly, his eyes studying the fire with fury. “They will be here within a moon’s turn to request our fealty to the King.”

 

Her expression changes, her face fills with determination. “We are _not_ swearing fealty to the men who killed our family.” She is on her feet before him, her eyes holding purpose. “We must fight.”

 

Jon feels the breath leave him. He had known that those would be her words, just as he had known that these would be his. “We don’t _have_ men to fight.”

 

She looks on him with confusion. “We have men at Winterfell. So many Wildlings.”

 

“Aye, children, old men and cripples,” he says harshly. “How can we defend our walls from the Lannisters _and_ the Freys?”

 

His words stay her, but then there is a glint of determination in her eyes. “There is another.”

 

He knows who she means before she says it. “No,” he says angrily as he gets to his feet. “No,” he says again, hoping against hope that she will not speak of it again.

 

“They came once,” she says stubbornly. “They _saved_ us.”

 

“You mean _he_ saved us. We owe them more then we can pay. We cannot owe them any more.”

 

Sansa shakes her head desperately; he can see that she is trying to make him understand. “We _can’t_ let the Lannisters and the Freys into our home. They killed Robb, Mother and Father. We _cannot_ let them have our home.”

 

He knows all this. How could he not? “Do you trust him?” His tone holds an accusation he is yet to have an answer to. “Do you trust him to bring House Arryn back to defend Winterfell?”

 

“Of course not,” Sansa says pleadingly. “I don’t trust _anyone_. But, we are out of options.”

 

He cannot listen to this. He cannot think on such terms. He cannot stand to look at her, and so he turns to leave.

 

“There is something else we can do,” Sansa says. He can see from the way she looks away from him, that she finds this thought dreadful.

 

He turns to face her, silently waiting as she continues.

 

“We could write a letter, swear fealty to the King of Westeros, and in exchange, ask him to legitimise you.” She finally looks at him with hopeful eyes, her steps cautious as she moves towards him. “There will be no war, no death, and Winterfell will be yours.”

 

Jon stares at her incredulously. He feels the breath knock out of him just as it had once been done when Stannis Baratheon had wanted him to take the name Stark. He thinks of it; how could he not? He weighs the thoughts in his mind before his words come out painfully. “Winterfell is Bran’s.”

 

“Then we _hold_ it for him until he returns. If you don’t want to fight, this is all we can do.”

 

“All we can do?” he asks harshly. “All we can do is invite the Freys and Lannisters into Winterfell? Feed them meat and mead and kneel before them?”

 

She flinches, her gaze falling from his for only a moment. “We play the host, just as the Frey’s played host. Once you become a Stark, we can defend Winterfell with _all_ the Northern families having no choice but to swear fealty to you.”

 

Jon shakes his head. “That is not what we do.” He turns to leave, but her words stop him.

 

“You will be a Stark,” she pleads. “Is that not what you want?”

 

“It’s _all_ I want!” he says harshly as he turns towards her, his words too rough, too thick for him to say more. The silence that falls between them is long as she eyes him in a way he has never wanted to see her look at him. She has confusion in her look, and pity. Pity for the Bastard boy who only ever wanted to have his father’s name. Pity for the Bastard boy who was forced to love his brother Robb, even though he had everything that Jon ever wanted. He has been ashamed of this failing for so long. The guilt of his weakness has never been abated after news of his brother’s death had reached his ears.

Aye, she looks at him with pity and he eyes her with fear and humiliation.

 

Sansa steps forward, as if to comfort him, and Jon steps back to avoid her touch. He’s ashamed by his outburst, and her hurt expression pains him. No one save him knew of the craving inside of him he has had since he was a child. He was the Bastard told to wait outside as the children of Ned Stark met with Lords and Ladies. He was the Bastard who had his supper with the swordsmith, for fear of Lady Catelyn’s eye. Aye, he was a Bastard, practically forgotten if not for Robb demanding his presence as they got older.

 

Winterfell is Robb’s home, and for that reason alone, Jon thinks he can fight once more.

 

When he speaks, his voice is strong. “The Freys and Lannisters are not welcome here. We _will_ fight them. We will keep our home” Sansa smiles, her eyes beaming with pride. “Without Littlefinger,” he says harshly, inviting no argument.

 

Her smile fades, and without a word, Jon leaves.

 

He has men to talk to; plans to be made. He will not be sleeping tonight.


	5. Gluttony: It's Greed, It's Excessive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the encouraging reviews. They mean a lot, really.

Davos Seaworth is not a man who says many words. Yet, when he has no words, no statements of wisdom, nothing worries Jon more. Instead, the Onion Knight tells him that he must sleep. Solutions come quicker to eyes that have rested, he said, while Tormund had grunted his assent. 

Jon had concluded their meeting shortly after, retiring to his bedchamber with ale in his hand. There, he does not sleep. He does not rest, as his advisors have told him to do; he stays seated at the table where he makes his plans. He pours over maps instead, his head hurting and his eyes tired regardless of his mind not allowing him to forget, for even a moment, that he must fight again. 

He thinks back to the life he once had. He had been a boy, naïve in thought. He had learned to wield a sword like Robb, like his Father, but he had not thought that he would wield it to cut down so many men. He had been swayed by the heroes of their stories, where glory made someone less of a Bastard and more of a knight. He had wanted to be a knight; more so than Bran. Yet his station had stopped him. He had known from a young age that the only knight he could be was one that wears black. He had had that dream, as cruel as it was. 

Then his brothers killed him. 

“You’re drunk.”

Jon smiles as he rubs his eyes, his shoulders too weary to confront his sister. “Aye,” he says as he finally looks at her in her dress and hair. She looks like the perfect Northern lady wife. She looks particularly like Catelyn Stark when she eyes him in disapproval as she is doing. 

Sansa waits for an explanation, and when he provides none, her expression hardens. “Are you an idiot?” Her tone is harsh, even to his muddled ears. “We have to find a way to defend this Castle, defend our home, and you’re _drinking_.”

Jon feels the inexplicable need to shake her, to demand her solution to the problem that he has no resolution for. Instead, his fingers curl into fists and he laughs bitterly. “We can’t defend this Castle.” He says no more, his hands reaching for the ale. He is disappointed when she lifts it from his table and steps back from him. 

“You don’t know that. We have options.”

“Aye, options,” he says curtly. “One where we kneel before the very men that killed our father and brother. The other, where we ally ourselves with the man who sold you to the Boltons.”

She flinches and he immediately regrets his words. 

Jon sighs, his thoughts slow. “What would you have me do?”

She looks on him a while, her expression indifferent before she places his ale on the table. If Jon thinks that she approves of his behaviour, it is short lived. Sansa comes to his side, her hands steady as she tries to lift him from his chair. 

“I would have you sleep,” she says firmly. 

Jon follows her without an objection, as he always does, his brows furrowed with a confusing thought. 

“Why do you want to go back to him?” 

Sansa seats him gently at the foot of his bed, her fingers deft as she begins to remove the leather he wears. She doesn’t say anything for a while, and Jon loses patience, his hands staying hers. “Sansa.” 

When she speaks, her words are pained. “I don’t want to go back to him. I don’t trust him.” She pauses, her fingers removing the last of his leather. “I _hate_ him.”

He watches her as she takes his armour and places it on the table near the hearth. He waits, because he knows that she has more to say. When she says nothing, he speaks. “Then why—”

“Because I love our home more.” 

She joins him on the foot of his bed, her hands taking his. “He has an army with him.”

“House _Arryn_ has an army.”

“He controls House Arryn. Jon, _please_ , I must write to him.” He shakes his head, the denial on his lips, but she continues. “We don’t know what he wants until we ask it.” 

“What if he wants you?” he says the words softly, words that he would not have said had he not consumed too much ale. 

Her face falls. “He wouldn’t. Not now. No one would want me.” 

He means to object, but she continues before he can.

“I _will be_ writing to him. I’m telling you now. I don’t want you to be angry.”

Jon looks at her; really, truly looks at her. She has hopefulness in her expression, one that has been lacking since he had told her that he would protect her and she had said that he couldn’t. He laughs softly, his hand rubbing the weariness from his eyes. He is a weakling, if not a Bastard. “Gods, you’re stubborn.”

She smiles, her expression teasing. “But you amiable?”

His smile falls, for he wants her to know his sincerity. “You don’t agree to any terms without me.” 

“No, of course not.” Her expression is serious, too serious for him to bear. 

He nods, his fingers rising to remove the knot of his tunic. She looks away and he does not know why. He must sleep, he knows, and he is too weary to think on anything else. His fingers fumble, and after a moment, her fingers move his aside to remove the bindings gently. Jon doesn’t mean to look at her, but he watches as her expression first holds purpose before her eyes widen in dread. It is then, when he feels the touch of her fingers against his bare skin. 

There is a tingle in his skin, as she studies the cut that will never heal. He watches her as her eyes stay trained on the place where a blade had once gone through, her touch gentle, yet firm. Her eyes have tears in their depths as she raises her head to finally look at him. For one brief moment, Jon realises that he never thought that any pain he endures could hurt someone else. 

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice breaks. Her words quiver and collapses and he shakes his head, because he lived. 

The touch of her forehead against his causes his eyes to close, as she calms him. Her hand stays against the open wound on his chest, the other rising to caress his cheek. He breathes in deeply, her warm breath barely touching his lips. 

He feels like a boy, sitting on a bed with a pretty girl who is so close. His mind is muddy with ale and her hand on his chest is making his heart beat faster. He wants nothing more, he realises with dismay, than to kiss her. At this moment, he wants nothing more than to taste her lips and say what he cannot say. 

He means to move back. He knows he should. But her nose bumps his and she is so close. Her fingers against his cheek are light in their touch, soothing and gentle, and his chest feels tight, ready to burst with something he has not felt in so long. She feels closer now, so much closer, and he doesn’t know if he has moved towards her or she has moved towards him. 

He must speak. He must say her name. He must say something. 

He does. 

He reaches for her hand that lies against his chest, his fingers prying hers away from him. 

He whispers her name, softly, and he watches as her eyes open. There is panic and fear in her gaze, just as surely as she can see them in his. He wants to say more; so much more. Instead, he clears his throat and watches as she comes back to herself. “You must go.”

She nods, her eyes looking at anything but him. Her hands fall from him quickly and she is standing faster than he realises. 

Her eyes meet his once more in panic, but she says nothing. A moment passes, and then she is gone. 

Jon stares at the fires, and feels that he can breathe again. He drops his head in his hands and waits, waiting for the feeling he had had to leave him. 

His heart is beating maddeningly, his mind is in turmoil and his hands shake. 

He does not sleep that night, no matter how he tries.


	6. Wrath: It Burns Fast and Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all... HOW GREAT WAS THAT SEASON FINALE? As primarily a book reader, I can't wait to read The Winds of Winter and see it all happen again. Also, it's nice to have Jon's parentage FINALLY confirmed. 
> 
> Secondly, you can easily slot in Episode 6x10 after the previous chapter and before this chapter. I've made references to it, but it's not that important if you want to not consider that all of the Jon x Sansa scenes have happened before this chapter. 
> 
> For the purpose of this chapter (and story) Arya is still crossing the Narrow Sea towards Westeros and Bran, Benjen and Meera are still on their way to the Wall. It's amazing how Varys makes it to Dorne and back to Mereen and Gendry is still rowing. :P
> 
> Thank you again for the lovely reviews. Your encouragement made sure I felt bad everyday I delayed writing this chapter.

She finds him in the Godswood, before the heart tree, a heavy cloak about his shoulders whilst his sword rests across his legs. She watches as he sharpens it with a whetstone, his movements slow and controlled. He looks so much like Father that she pauses, a letter clutched in her hand, whilst her heart aches for what once was. When he finally notices her, his hands still, his brows furrowing. “What is it?”

 

“There’s been a raven from King's Landing,” she says, her voice thick. “The King is dead.” She moves towards him and gives him the letter, which he takes cautiously from her. “Cersei Lannister has taken the throne.”

 

She seats herself close to him as she waits for Jon to finish reading the letter himself. She watches as his eyes widen in horror. “The Sept of Baelor,” he whispers, and Sansa knows that there are no words that can be said of the terror that had been in King's Landing, or of the terror that now sits on the throne.

 

She watches as Jon crushes the letter in his fist, his brows furrowing further in thought. “Do we have any men there?”

 

“There were a few merchants who begged leave to get supplies for the long winter. I sent a raven asking them to return as soon as possible.”

 

“Good,” Jon says, and she sees the way his shoulders visibly relax. “Good.”

 

They sit in silence for a moment, Sansa, waiting on orders from the man who was named King in the North, and Jon, silently sharpening the blade the late Lord Mormont had given him. They are less affectionate than they were a mere week ago. Now they are civil and courteous, and so she waits, until the silence becomes too long to bear.

 

“Do you pray?” she asks carefully, the memory of her Father in the Godswood with the boys and Arya strong in her mind. She remembers how she used to be the only child who chose the Seven, while the rest preferred the Old Gods.

 

Jon does not answer for a while, and she thinks he means to never answer. When she turns towards him, she feels her breath pause. His grey eyes study her with a cold calculation she has only seen him use when studying the Red Lady. “Were you praying?” he asks, his tone holding accusation, which confuses Sansa greatly. “Is that what you were doing with Lord Baelish in the Godswood?”

 

Sansa has no words, her mind a maze of thoughts before her eyes narrow with offence. “You had me followed.”

 

“Not you,” Jon says calmly as he stops sharpening his sword.

 

She waits until he places the blade inside its scabbard and the sword is kept on the ground between them. She has been caught, she thinks in panic, even though she does not understand why that feeling prevails above all others.

 

Jon’s words are slow, the accusation in them blatant. “You said you don’t trust him, counsel that I took to heart. What were you discussing?”

 

She knows that no matter what she says that he will be angry. Jon does not give her time to settle her thoughts. He says her name harshly, and she knows that she cannot avoid the disagreement they will have.

 

“We need his army.”

 

“Not anymore,” he says quickly, and Sansa knows that Jon had a suspicion as to why they had met; a suspicion that she has now confirmed. “The Lords of the North have sworn their allegiance to Winterfell.”

 

Sansa shakes her head even before he ends his words, her impatience apparent. “Cersei Lannister is _not_ to be ignored. If you and your Wildlings are right, then we have two enemies, one from the North and one from the South.”

 

“What lies beyond the Wall is much worse.”

 

“That may be,” she says carefully. “You know the enemy in the North more so than I, _I_ know the enemy in the South more so than you.”

 

Jon watches her, and she knows he still does not understand. “Let them come,” he says. “The long winter will kill them before they are a hundred leagues from Winterfell.”

 

“You don’t _know_ her.” Her tone is forceful, pleading with her brother who she sees wants to hear no more. He stands, but she stands too, stopping him from lifting his sword and leaving her in the Godswood alone. “You didn’t listen to me about Ramsay so you _must_ listen to me on this. Cersei Lannister is _cruel_. She will not care if she sends ten thousand men to certain death, so long as she gets what she wants. And what she wants is to rule everything, _including_ the North. She doesn’t follow the rules of open battle. She plays the game of whispers and coin. We _need_ to get as many Houses to our side as we can.”

 

He is hardened by his thoughts. She can see it in the way he stands before her, a pillar of anger kept at bay with hands fisted by his side. “You would sell yourself to Littlefinger to do this?”

 

She slaps him so hard her hand stings. Her chest rises and falls quickly, her eyes are wide and her heart is beating maddeningly.

 

When he turns to face her, his jaw just as hard, his eyes just as cold, he doesn’t threaten her. He says nothing. Instead, he means to walk around her, to walk away from her, and Sansa raises a hand to stop him. “ _Please_ , Jon.” She flinches when he steps back, as if her very touch would hurt him again. She is a lady who had learned her curtsies long ago. She cannot be harsh or cruel, no matter what Ramsay Bolton had done to her. When she speaks, her voice is thick, the sting behind her eyes real. “I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean…”

 

His face is inexpressive, his thoughts a mystery to her.

 

“Say something…” she says softly. His silence worries her. His eyes trouble her more.

 

“We don’t need him,” he says finally, his voice gruff and final.

 

Something collapses in her chest and the anger returns too fast for her to control. “ _Why_ won’t you listen to me?”

 

His jaw twitches, and she can see that she has made him as angry as she is. Something deep inside her rejoices at making him feel anger the way he makes _her_ feel anger.

 

“What would you have me do?” he asks her, his voice harsh. “Do you want to be the Lady of Winterfell and send me back to the Wall, as fitting a Bastard? Is that what you want?”

 

The moment he says it, she knows. The spies under his charge had heard every word on that fateful day in the Godswood. Nothing hurts her more than Jon thinking the truth of those words. “That is _not_ what I want. I _want_ to be your equal.”

 

She sees the flash of confusion in his eyes. “You are,” he says, but he does not mean that.

 

“I’m not.” She watches the way his eyes harden again, and she knows she cannot help but say the wrong thing again and again. “You listen, yes, but you do not heed.”

 

“Is that what you want?” he asks mockingly. “For me to do what you want me to do? For me to take orders?”

 

Sansa realises too late that the anger he feels for Littlefinger has been brought to a discussion the former Master of Coin plays no part in. She must leave, she knows, before she says anything more that could damage the fragile relationship they had grown the past few moons. “We cannot speak of this when you’re like this,” she says carefully before she turns on her heel to leave.

 

“When then?” Jon mocks her. “When I’m buried in my cups?”

 

His words stay her, and when she turns to face him, she sees the panic in his eyes and she _knows_ that he did not mean for those words to escape him. It had been a fortnight past since she had been in his bedchamber last, with his breath warm with sweet wine. They had not spoken days after save for courteous greetings. She is yet to see Jon drink more than one cup of wine at dinner.

 

The silence between them is long.

 

Jon looks away first, his shoulders stiff as he starts towards his sword. Sansa is soon standing before him, her hands staying him once again by his shoulders. “Jon, please, don’t be angry.”

 

He doesn’t look at her. Why won’t he look at her?

 

She sees the red welt on his cheek, and her shame is insistent. She does not realise that she has taken his face in her hands, or that her face moves closer to his until he whispers one word coloured with misery:

 

“Don’t.”

 

Their eyes meet, his is laced with fear, but Sansa does not understand why. This is innocent, what is between them, and so she leans further, her lips touching the cheek that she hurt. She hears the breath leave him, but he does not embrace her. Her chest hurts with a need she barely understands. And so she follows it, because it makes her forget everything else.

 

Her lips on his cheek are no longer on the bone, but they have moved forward, with a light touch, until she feels the corner of his lips with hers and her eyes fall shut. He says nothing, he does nothing, and Sansa forgets everything but the way he feels. She needs to stop, but she fears that she lacks the strength.

 

“Jon,” she whispers, her lips gracing his lightly as she says his name. She wants to know what this feeling is; she wants to know why it happens and why is it only with him. She wants to know why her eyes cannot bear to open and why she cannot pull away.

 

His lips part against hers and he starts saying her name, but her body is a traitorous thing. Her lips move against his, stopping his words and exciting her skin. A moment later, his arms surround her as his lips move against hers in a way that begs for her response. There is a tickle under her skin, a need in her belly as he pulls her close. She does not remember anything being quite like this. His kisses are ravenous, and she willingly gives as much as she can take. Her lips part further and his tongue is forceful in its dance to leave her breathless. She clutches him tightly, her gloved hands buried in the dark curls so unlike her own. His body is hard against hers and all she thinks about his how closer she needs to be, how hard the leather is against her breast and how the need in her belly has gone lower still.

 

Her chest hurts from the lack of breath and her body craves more still. He is the one who pulls away from her, he, who drops his hands from her quickly as if the mere touch of her burns him.

 

Jon does not look at her, but all Sansa can look at is him. She hugs herself, for her breathing is hard and fast and she must calm her heart. She watches as a war goes on inside him. He paces away from her, his chest rising and falling as fast as hers, his eyes wild. Sansa tentatively raises her fingers to her lips. They tingle, an odd sensation she has never experienced before.

 

When his gaze meets hers, she realises that all she wants is to meet his lips with hers once again. The thought frightens her. “If I go with Lord Baelish to the Vale,” she says slowly, the words like parchment in her mouth, “I can meet Robert Arryn and negotiate a settlement between our Houses.”

 

She waits, watching the myriad of emotions that go through his eyes. The silence holds too long between them, and Sansa wants nothing more than to hear him voice his displeasure. He does not say a word until he steps forward to lift the scabbard that holds his sword. “Aye,” Jon says roughly, his eyes wretched. “If you must.”

 

He says nothing more as he walks past her. Sansa waits until she does not hear his footfalls before she collapses, the tears falling freely down her cheeks. She remembers when she went to the Godswood to ask her father forgiveness for going to the Queen Regent when he had intended to take her back to Winterfell. Today, she does not know how to ask her father’s forgiveness for what had transpired before the Heart tree.


	7. Sloth: Because The Effort Cannot Be Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for what I am about to say. 
> 
> The reason I got so late with this chapter was because I had a 'crisis of story'. I initially intended this to be the last chapter, followed by a bonus chapter, which would complete the story. That was the plan, it was working out. But, then, the finale happened and I had an urge to explore the story further. I couldn't decide whether to continue or not. Finally decided... "Screw it!" and so I will be uploading 7 additional chapters, which will be themed with the 7 virtues. 
> 
> Aspects of 6x10 will be used, and aspects of the books will be referenced. 
> 
> Thank you to all those who have read and reviewed and favourited. Your support is amazing!

It has been days since she has last spoken to Jon.

 

She sees him in the castle, but he no longer acknowledges her. The fragile friendship they had once formed has collapsed, and Sansa feels more responsible than she could ever explain.

 

Petyr Baelish seems to know the discomfort between Sansa and her half-brother. He whispers words that she tries not to hear, and smiles happily when he sees Jon look at her briefly only to look away.

 

Supper has become a sorry affair for Sansa. Jon used to join her in her meals, along with the Onion Knight, Tormund and Petyr Baelish. The discussion was always about war and battles, but Sansa did not mind. She learned when they spoke, and she understood more and more with each passing day.

 

For days, Jon has had his supper in his bedchamber along with Ser Davos and Tormund Giantsbane. The Onion Knight knows something is amiss between them, as does the man from beyond the wall. She can see the gentle man look between them when Jon looks away, as well as the suspicion that colours the expression of the Wildling.

 

On her last day at Winterfell, she begs leave from supper, waiting for Lord Baelish to complete his meal before she enters the Great Hall to have her last spread before the journey to the Eyrie. She hopes to reach Robert Arryn before a week’s end, and she hopes to do this by keeping Petyr Baelish at bay for as long as she can.

 

He still whispers about what he wants when he is with her, his words as familiar as it once was when she called him ‘Father’. She knows that her journey to the Eyrie is nothing but a farce. If she leaves, perhaps her thoughts on Jon will be subdued. She hopes they will be. If she still knelt in prayer, she would have prayed to the Seven to will it so.

 

Sansa finds herself thinking of providing the food she cannot eat to the dogs, when Jon enters. She feels her breath leave her as he watches her silently. She waits, whilst he steps forward and serves himself food before he takes a seat on the other side of the table. Sansa is bereft to admit that not only does her half-brother wish to keep space between them; his wish is to keep the length of a long table between them.

 

He does not say a word as he begins to eat, his brows furrowed in concentration at the meal at hand.

 

Sansa stills, watching him and waiting. She does not know if he wants her to leave or stay. She does not understand why he has chosen to be in the same chamber as her since the day in the Godswood.

 

The silence between them becomes too long, too hard, and Sansa knows that she must leave for her own mind’s sake. As her chair scrapes the stone, Jon looks at her.

 

“Are you prepared for your journey tomorrow?”

 

Sansa finds herself unable to speak. She watches him with confusion, her tongue unable to find the words.

 

“Brienne hasn’t returned.”

 

To these words, Sansa’s confusion gives way to understanding. “No. She hasn’t.”

 

“Is it wise to travel without her?”

 

A brief smile escapes her. “Ser Davos suggested I take twenty five men with me. I argued that it was too much but—”

 

“It’s not enough.”

 

She looks on him with surprise. “It’s too much. Five men would suffice—”

 

“I will send an additional fifteen men—”

 

“The journey will be long with more men—”

 

“Aye. And safer.”

 

His eyes are hard, and Sansa knows that she cannot argue with him. “Very well. If you wish to send forty able-bodied men South—”

 

“I do.”

 

Jon decides to focus on his meal once again, and Sansa watches him with the heavy silence between them. Once again, she does not know if she should beg her leave, or stay. When he says nothing more, Sansa decides to say her next words calmly.

 

“I will not be gone long. I will return within a fortnight, before the long winter takes its roots.”

 

She watches him as he drinks his cup of wine quickly. He has completed his meal faster than she ever has, and he stands stiffly before his eyes meet hers. “I wish you a safe journey, my lady.”

 

The formality of his words hurt her.

 

“Thank you,” she says softly, her voice as cold as his, “Your Grace.”

 

She has hurt him, she can see, from the way he draws in a breath, his eyes as hard as ice. She watches him as he turns his back to her and prepares to leave, then he pauses.

 

His shoulders are stiff, and his fingers that curl the back of the chair are pale white. She waits, as patiently as she can, before his head turns slightly, and he looks over his shoulder at her.

 

“I would rather you not go,” he says softly, his eyes meeting hers only for a moment before his hand releases the chair and he takes leave of her company.

 

Sansa sits in silence for a while, her palm on her breast, as she curses her rapidly beating heart.

 

She wonders if this was how it had begun between the Kingslayer and his sister. She wonders if her Mother and Father are watching them from the afterlife, an unbearable sadness between them. She wonders if Jon would open the door if she goes to his bedchamber tonight.

 

She tells her handmaiden shortly after to inform all parties, including Lord Baelish, that she will not be accompanying him to the Vale at first light.

 

She thanks her sense for her decision, for when a raven brings word from her former Lannister husband two days after, Sansa knows that the news cannot be pleasing.


	8. Liberality: New Ways, New Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really hard not to bring in too many book!facts since this story is show-based. But I have done the best I can.
> 
> As always, thank you to those who have read and reviewed this experiment of a story.

Jon flexes his burned hand as he watches a boy younger than Olly once was, break stone with a hammer too big for him to carry. The boy has sweat on his brow regardless of the snow, and his fingers are too small to hold the handle well.

 

“You should watch yourself,” he says by way of a friendly greeting, waiting for the boy to see him and drop his tools in a panic before bowing haphazardly. “The last thing we need is for our stonemason’s apprentice to suffer an injury.”

 

The boy smiles shyly as he wipes his hands on a dirty rag. “Aye... Your Grace. I try. How can we help you then?”

 

Jon laughs. “You need not call me that. I’m looking for Henly. It’s time to focus on the work to be done in the South Tower. Where is he?”

 

The boy looks at him in confusion, his next words almost a stutter. “Why, he’s…. He’s in the crypt... m’lord. Like he’s always been.”

 

“The crypt?”

 

“Aye. He’s been working in the crypt for three weeks past. He doesn’t let me go down there. He says a boy my age shouldn’t.”

 

Jon thanks the boy as quickly as he can, his own confusion rising as he trudges through the snow, his thoughts far from occupied by what it should be. He welcomes the distraction. He is yet to respond with a raven to the alliance offered by a Hand of the Queen who claims a war to the South will be greater than any battle Westeros has ever seen. Jon wishes he could take the youngest Lannister with him beyond the Wall to show him what a true battle will be. He has no answer as yet. He could not care less who sits on the Iron Throne, so long as the men he has, have sufficient weapons to kill the monsters the cold brings.

 

As he nears the entrance to the crypt, Jon hesitates. He remembers the dreams that he once had. The crypts had called to him, the darkness too dense for him to do anything but scream. He remembers the way the kings of old, with blades across their laps and direwolves around their feet had risen from their thrones, yelling at him to leave this place. They told him that he had no place here.

 

He has not had that dream for a long while. As it were, he does not dream as he once used to. He has not dreamt since life was given to him once again. Perhaps, that is the singular blessing that has happened from what the Red Woman had done to him.

 

Jon remembers how silent the crypt used to be, how Arya once was so frightened that he had worn flour in his hair and pretended to be a ghost to scare her. She had hit him with little fists right after and he had laughed so hard that his belly hurt. He wonders where she is now. He prays that she is safe.

 

As he descends the cold, stone steps, Jon hears the unmistakable sound of men at work. The fires burn hot and bright, the heat enough to make him want to shed the fur he wears.

 

He follows the fires to the top most level of the crypt where the bones of the recent Lords of Winterfell rest. The sound of metal against stone drowning his footfalls as he comes closer to the place where the tombs of his father, and his father’s father’s tombs before him, resides.

 

As he enters that part of the crypt, he sees her.

 

Sansa has her back to him as she speaks to the stonemason, her hair like fire in the dark halls. His chest collapses, as it always does when he sees her, his steps becoming slower, the closer he moves towards her.

 

It is by chance when he sees the work of the stonemason and his workers. His chest hurts when he sees Robb’s likeness near his father. Something else, something deep in his chest cheers and screams and cries, when he sees the tomb being shaped beside Robb.

 

“Sansa.” He says her name softly, but his voice carries in the dark hall and they all stop their work. His half-sister eyes him in panic, and he knows he has caught her in an act that she did not want to be found guilty of.

 

He steps towards her, his eyes only on her. “This is not right.”

 

“Jon—”

 

“Leave us,” he says forcefully, and he watches, as with a final glance towards their Lady, the masons put down their tools and leave the dark hallway. Jon waits until he does not hear their footfalls, his expression one of disappointment. “What are you doing?”

 

“I know you don’t approve.”

 

“I’m _not_ a Stark,” he says angrily. “I have no place here.”

 

He watches as her eyes narrow at him. She stands straighter, her gaze blazing with anger. “You can say it however many times you want, that _won’t_ make it true.”

 

He wishes he could shake her. He wishes he could make her understand. “The crypt is meant for the Lords of Winterfell,” he says slowly, almost as if he is explaining this to a child. “Only Starks have tombs here. Not Bastards.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Her words anger him further. “Sansa—”

 

“Father didn’t care either. Before him, only Lords were given tombs. Father broke that tradition by making tombs for his siblings. You are our brother, aren’t you?”

 

He falters, as he always does when she uses sense against him. “I am not a Stark,” he says finally, his voice defeated.

 

“You know I don’t see you that way. Not now. Robb never did. Neither did Arya, Bran or Rickon. You were a Stark to them from the day they were born.” She looks away from him, her voice soft. “I was wrong to call you what I did when I was young.”

 

Her words make him feel better and worse. He thinks of how her lips were sweet against his and how her hand had cupped his cheek. He doesn’t _want_ to be her brother. He would give anything to not be. He would even give up the name Stark, as much as it pains him.

 

He wishes she knew how much her actions hurt him.

 

“You need to take this down,” he says finally, his voice thick. “You need to burn it.”

 

She looks at him stubbornly. “I won’t.”

 

“Then I will have it done.”

 

“If you do so, I will have no choice but to replace it.”

 

He feels defeated by her words and actions. He does not understand why this is so important to her. “Why are you doing this?” he asks finally, his voice tired.

 

She shrugs, her eyes wet. “I’m trying to make amends.” She smiles through her tears and his chest hurts at the sight. “I was awful to you.”

 

He shakes his head. “You weren’t.”

 

“I was. I didn’t love you the way I loved Robb. I didn’t love you like a brother. Did you love me? Like you loved Arya?”

 

He feels the word stuck in his throat, but he says it, even though it comes out barely above a whisper. “No.”

 

She nods, because she always knew his answer. “It’s my fault we are what we are. I didn’t love you the way I should have loved a brother. Because of that, I’ve never seen you as my brother. Do you see me as your sister?”

 

Jon falters, and then he shakes his head. He wishes he could step closer to her. He wishes he could take the tears falling down her cheeks that pain him as much as they pain her.

 

“If I only loved you as a brother and you loved me as a sister…” She does not finish her words. He watches as she rubs the tears from her eyes delicately, her smile saddened. “You are all I have. I don’t want us to be strangers.”

 

“We’re not strangers,” he says, although he does not believe it.

 

“We are,” she says sadly. “You don’t speak to me. You barely look at me.” Her laugh is soft and pained. “Even now we could put half a Kingsguard between us.”

 

“What do you want from me?” he asks, saddened by how he has no answer. He cannot step closer to her, no matter how much he desires it.

 

“I _want_ you to be my brother,” she says through tears. “I _want_ you to be a Stark. I _want_ you to love me as a brother loves his sister and I want to love you like a sister loves her brother.” She watches him with a yearning that he will never be able to understand. And he knows, that he must do this for her.

 

Her next words are a whisper, and it is sufficient for Jon to break the vow he had made to himself to touch her never again.

 

“That’s what I want. Please, Jon.”

 

He is impulsive by nature. He has been told this time and again from those who had raised him and from those who had known him for barely a moment. This is why he curses the Gods and moves towards her, his arms enveloping her so that his face could be buried in her hair. She cries against him, her body shaking with sobs, and his eyes fall on the tomb that she intends to be his. He looks more like their father than Robb ever did. Robb and Sansa had the colouring of a trout, as did their other siblings. Arya and Jon were more wolf than them all.

 

He stares at her hair—kissed by fire—at the soft strands that coat his fingers. He saw Robb as a brother, why not see Sansa as his sister?

 

She _is_ his sister, he thinks, even as the stirrings inside him are far from honourable.

 

He is not Stark. He will never be a Stark. Yet, Sansa _is_ his sister and he will treat her as such.


	9. Kindness: When You Want More and You Have Less

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, going to try to finish this story as fast as I can. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing. Seriously. I love nothing more than reading your reviews. You have been so encouraging and wonderful.

When she is awoken by the soft knocking on the wooden door to her Bedchamber, Sansa stills. She breathes deeply, terror in her mind as she wonders if the Lannisters or the Freys were at the gate of Winterfell in the dead of night, and so her fingers curl around the handle of the blade she keeps under her feather pillow, as she waits.

“M’lady.” The knock becomes more insistent, yet it stays as soft. Sansa knows the voice, so she stands from her bed, placing a modest robe over her nightgown, the blade forgotten in her bedding.

Her handmaiden bows low the moment the door is opened. “What is it?”

“Pardon me, m’lady,” the handmaiden says softly. “His Grace requests your presence.”

“Jon?” Sansa whispers in confusion. “Now?”

Her handmaiden nods, her head still low. “He wishes to see you in the Lord’s Chamber, m’lady. He requests you to be quiet.”

Sansa tightens the bindings around her robe as she thanks her handmaiden. The girl takes her leave quickly, leaving Sansa alone. Winterfell is colder at night, yet the hot pools that surround the castle ensures that Sansa can move without issue, her footfalls quiet as she makes her way to the chamber that was once shared by her mother and father.

She cannot help but wonder why her half-brother wishes to see her at such a late hour, nor can she understand why he wishes to see her in the Lord’s Chamber.

When she comes to the door, she hesitates, her ears straining to understand the low whispers from inside the Chamber. She opens the door without invitation and enters without further thought.

Jon stands speaking to Maester Doric; their words pause as they see her. Without a word, Jon stands aside, and Sansa sees that there is a boy on the bedding. The tears burn her eyes as she rushes to Bran’s side, her hand warm against his cool cheek.

“Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” Jon says softly, and she breathes easily. Jon reveals a blue vial in his hand. “Maester Doric says he must give him a drop of this every hour.”

“We must give him water too, Your Grace,” the Maester says with a bow. “At least a cup.”

“You need not come for the next few hours,” Jon says softly, easily dismissing the Maester. “I will ensure he is given his medication.” The Maester bows before he leaves, yet, Sansa knows that she will see him again in one hour, regardless.

Sansa seats herself beside her brother, her happiness too much to voice. Bran looks to be sleeping peacefully. His clothes are torn and there is blood and mud coating his skin. His hair is matted, as if he has not had a bath in too long to remember.

“What happened?”

She watches as Jon pulls a chair closer to the other side of the bed, his shoulders tired as he sits beside his brother. “A girl…” he says. “Meera Reed, she brought him here.”

Sansa watches him with confusion. “Howland Reed’s daughter?”

“Aye.”

“Where is she?”

“She nearly collapsed herself. They haven’t had food or water in days. I gave her goat's milk, cheese, bread, and a bed... She's resting now. The gates at Castle Black were closed, so she dragged him all the way here,” he says softly.

Sansa’s gaze meets his, and she knows, as well as he does, that if the gates are closed, they are preparing for battle. But, that is a conversation for another time.

“What of Summer? Hodor? Are they resting?”

Jon looks away from her, and an unbearable sadness settles in Sansa’s heart. “She said they died protecting Bran. She mentioned White Walkers.”

“At least he’s safe,” she says softly, her fingers gentle as she brushes his hair from his face. “At least he’s home.”

“We can’t tell anyone. She was insistent.”

Sansa’s gaze narrows with suspicion. “We can’t tell anyone that the one true son of Lord Eddard Stark is back in Winterfell?”

She sees the flash of pain in her half-brother’s eyes and she regrets her words. Yet his expression remains patient, and so she waits for his next words. “I don’t understand it either. She said we need to speak to Bran first. So, that is what we will do.”

“When will he wake up?”

“We hope soon.”

The silence that falls between them is broken not a moment after by his apology.

“I’m sorry I woke you. I thought you would want to know.”

“I did,” Sansa says with a soft, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

He looks away from her too quickly and Sansa feels the silence between them thicken. They are quiet for a long while, until her gaze rises to her half-brother. She sees the way his brows furrow in thought, the way his eyes have gone someplace else.

“What is it?”

He comes back to himself at the sound of her voice, his sigh betraying his tiredness. “I want to send a raven to Castle Black.”

“You should.”

He smiles sadly, his eyes falling in Bran. “I don’t want to leave him. I’m afraid he will disappear.”

“He won’t; not while I'm here. Go send your raven.”

Jon nods before he stands, his steps soft as he leaves her with her brother. As she knew he would, Maester Doric comes shortly after. She watches as he pours water down her brother’s throat. It is a slow process that takes too long. She thanks the Maester as he leaves and she seats herself on the chair her half-brother had vacated.

She is so very tired and so very happy. Sansa does not realise how she has fallen asleep until the sun falls on her closed lids. Her hand still holds her brother’s, who is still sleeping, and Jon smiles at her softly from his chair on the other side of the bed. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Sansa falters, words leaving her. She sees the fur he has draped on her to keep her warm, and she is reminded once again of how kind he is to her.

“You didn't,” she says, and she is rewarded by a sad smile from him before his eyes focus on their brother once again.

“Lord Baelish is yet to leave Winterfell,” Jon says softly, his eyes still on his brother.

“Yes.”

“Perhaps now that the true born son of Winterfell has returned, he will miss his home in the Vale more.”

“Perhaps,” Sansa says, although she does not agree. She knows what he wants, and he will not leave until she agrees to marry Robert Arryn. “He knows, doesn’t he? That Bran has returned.”

She watches as Jon’s gaze hardens with distaste. “He has more spies than Mance Rayder had Freefolk.”

“What did he say?”

“More of the same,” Jon says tiredly. “He suggested I go back to the Wall. The true Lord Stark has come back, he said. There’s no longer a place for a Bastard in Winterfell.” Jon’s laugh is soft and hard. “Won’t it be better for me to go to a place where I will feel more useful, he said.”

Sansa’s fingers tighten around Bran’s, her anger rising. “He’s wrong. Bran needs you here. So do I.”

He looks on her with dread, and she knows he has more to say. “Winterfell is Bran’s, yours and Arya’s. I never intended to take it from you. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” Sansa says with a soft smile. “I don’t think we could trust anyone more.”

His smile is small, and she knows that even though Petyr Baelish’s words had reached his heart, her words helped appease it.

“Jon…” She waits until he looks at her for her next words to leave her. “What did the letter say? You never told me.”

“He didn’t ask for his bride back, if that worries you.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” It surprises her how fondly she remembers her former husband. “What did he offer?”

Jon is silent for a moment, his next words hesitant. “He offers that I go to Dragonstone to meet with the last Targaryen. She has the Martells and the Tyrells, and she wants the North before she marches on King’s Landing to claim the throne. Euron Greyjoy has destroyed half of their fleet. They’ve lost men, and they need more.” He sighs. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing south of the Wall matters.”

“Will they give you more men in return?”

“Aye. And dragons.”

“Why do they need our men? They can take King’s Landing with dragons.”

“Not unless they want King’s Landing burnt to the ground. I can’t imagine dragons being able to set fire to one man while the man next to him goes unscathed.”

Her next words are cautious, slow and suspicious. “Why have you not answered him? If Dragonglass and Valyrian steel, both forged in dragon fire can defeat White Walkers, that would mean that you could defeat their army with her dragons.”

“Aye,” he says heavily.

“You have not accepted this offer. Why?”

He is silent for a moment, his gaze on Bran a long while, before he speaks. “The North does not _care_ who sits on the Iron Throne. The only reason father could convince them to take up arms against the Mad King was because he burned Northmen alive. The only reason the banners came when Robb called was because they had taken a Northman as a hostage. Tyrion Lannister knows this. He knows that they will not fight unless they fight for family, for blood.”

Sansa falters, his true words pressing into her chest. “He proposes marriage,” she says softly.

“Aye.” Jon’s voice is pained. “She will give me the Stark name for my men. And I will give my men for her dragons.”

They fall silent, and Sansa wants nothing more than to walk away and pace for a while with her thoughts. She cannot help but think on all things that had happened to her from the day she left Winterfell. She thinks of her mother and father and her siblings. She thinks of her aunt as she fell, and her cousin who resides in the Vale. She thinks of the stories that were told by Old nan; the stories Tormund Giantsbane had told her of what lies beyond the Wall. She thinks of how Edd had told her what had happened to her half-brother when he had wanted to protect the Wildlings. She remembers the day she placed her hand on his wound and breathed deeply to calm her beating heart. When her gaze falls on her younger brother, she knows that there is only one thing that can be done.

“You must accept this offer,” she says, her eyes meeting his for too long.

Jon sighs, his shoulders dropping and his eyes sad. “Aye, I know.”

She turns away from him, for fear that he will see how she truly feels about his offer of marriage. She brings her brother’s hand to her lips instead, her eyes closing as she begs her brother to _please, please, wake up._

He is all she will have. And for now, this is all she wants.


	10. Abstinence: Restraint Is Never Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 4 more chapters to go, you guys. 
> 
> As always, your reviews have been so encouraging. Thank you for being wonderful.

From the moment Bran opens his eyes, all Sansa can do is kiss his cheeks and weep in happiness for the brother she once thought was lost. Jon hugs him so long, she thinks she might have to pull him off her brother.

 

Bran is weak as he stays in bed as per their Maester’s instructions. He cannot eat as much as he used to. But his mind is sharp, and so he says the same words more than once.

 

“I cannot be here. I _must_ leave. She shouldn’t have brought me here.”

 

“Where will you go?” Jon asks, his eyes curious.

 

“I need to go beyond the Wall. I _cannot_ be here.”

 

Jon refuses. Bran is the last son, he says gently. He must take up his duties and be the Lord of Winterfell. Father would have wanted that. Yet, Bran refuses curtly, inviting no argument.

 

“Winterfell is yours,” he tells Jon. “And yours,” he tells Sansa. “I don’t want it. I never did. No one can know that I’m here. Promise me.”

 

Sansa promises her brother because as long as he is awake, she is happy. Jon stays silent.

 

“At least wait until you have your strength back,” her half-brother says reluctantly.

 

“I will.” Bran smiles, relief on his features. “Where’s Meera?”

 

Sansa’s gaze flicks to her half-brother, but his expression reveals nothing. “She’s been wanting to speak to you for days, while you slept. She watched you when your sister and I couldn’t.”

 

Sansa knows the smile Bran shyly shares. She remembers that same smile on her lips when she was young and innocent and Joffrey Baratheon had smiled at her.

 

“I would like to see her.”

 

Jon nods, his eyes meeting hers for a brief moment. “Very well.”

 

Sansa stands just as her half-brother does, and watches as he opens the door to the Bedchamber. Meera rushes in, ignoring the curtseys of Lords and Ladies as she kneels by Bran’s side. “You scared me.”

 

Bran looks at her with apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

 

“Don’t do that next time. I couldn’t wake you for a day.”

 

It is Jon’s hand that takes her hand gently to lead her away from her brother and the girl, their soft words a reminder of the innocence she once had and lost. When they take their leave and close the door behind them, his hand leaves hers. Sansa curls her fingers closer to her palms and she smiles whilst they walk together.

 

“I wonder if I should be making plans for a wedding soon,” she jests.

 

Jon’s laugh is hearty. “I suppose, considering she is of noble birth, she would be a good match.”

 

His words surprise her. Yet, what surprises her more is how she had not thought the way she once would have. “I don’t care about those things anymore.” Her voice is soft as she says, “Truly, I don’t think any of us should.”

 

There is surprise in her half-brother’s eyes, but his smile is sweet.

 

“Would you marry again?” he asks her gently.

 

Sansa is startled to admit that she had not thought on such things. “I suppose I would have to, one day, if it is required of me. I wouldn’t want to. I am perfectly satisfied with being without a husband for the rest of my days,” she says lightly. She says her next words carefully, her glance falling on Jon. “As I am sure that one day, you will be perfectly satisfied being with a wife.”

 

Jon does not look at her, nor does he seem to have heard her until they turn to enter the Great Hall. “Aye,” her half-brother says bitterly, his words soft. “One day.”

 

The silence between them becomes long, until the large doors of the Great Hall is thrown open and a man is thrown in with it.

 

A young boy, falls to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks as he shakes. He is followed by Tormund and Davos, whilst the former grins widely as he grabs the boy by the scruff of his neck and tosses him like linen towards Jon’s feet.

 

“Go on, then, you little shit. Tell him what you did.”

 

The boy whimpers. “I did nothing, M’lord. I swear it!”

 

Davos steps forward, his voice gruff. “He is your king, boy. Show His Grace the respect he deserves.”

 

“I swear! I swear! I did nothing, Your Grace.”

 

She watches as Jon stands taller, his face betraying nothing. “What’s happened?”

 

Davos moves closer as Tormund kicks the boy and laughs when he whimpers. “Seventy four ravens have been sent, Your Grace.”

 

Jon’s brows furrow in confusion. “Seventy four?”

 

“One for each House in the North, I reckon. We saw them take flight. We managed to shoot arrows into a few. This is what they said.” He gives the letter to Jon, who reads it silently before he says the words aloud.

 

“ _Jon Snow is not the Bastard of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. He is a Bastard son of another. He is a fraud. A coward. Hear my warning, my Lords, for he will ruin you and your Great Northern Houses.”_

 

Sansa watches as the boy’s eyes widen. He is kneeling before her half-brother before Jon can finish reading the letter, his own words said through tears. “I swear it, Your Grace, by the Old Gods and New, I didn’t know. I cannot read, Your Grace. My mother, she was a whore, my father, I never knew him. I was an orphan for as long as I could remember. A man paid me to send the ravens. I didn’t know! I swear it, Your Grace. I didn’t know he wanted me to send such words. If I knew I wouldn’t have. Please, Your Grace, you must believe me.”

 

“What was his name? The man who gave you this command. Tell me, do you know his face?”

 

“I… I don’t know, Your Grace. He came to me at night. He had a hood over his head. I didn’t see his face.”

 

Jon stares at him for a moment before he turns towards his trusted companions. “Take him to the dungeons and question him. I want to know everything.”

 

Tormund’s grin is wide, like a babe who was given too many sweets, and Jon sees it as well as she. “Not by you,” he says to the Wildling, whose smile drops. He shares a look with the Onion Knight who nods before he gestures to the Wildling, and they both grab onto the boy and drag him away from them, while he screams for mercy and understanding.

 

Jon is silent for a moment before he turns towards her. “There is only _one_ in Winterfell who would make such a claim.”

 

Sansa stays silent, for she knows of who he speaks of. She can see the anger in him from the way he crushes the letter in his fist and the way his lips form a sneer.

 

“I will have his head for this,” he says through gritted teeth.

 

“You can’t kill him.”

 

Jon looks at her as if she has offended him, his surprise apparent. “Why can’t I kill him? This is an act of treason.”

 

Sansa breathes deeply before she speaks, because she knows his anger as well as her own. She knows he does not take kindly to words unless they are uttered in a calmly manner. “You cannot kill him for this because it’s _not_ treason.”

 

She sees the way his shoulders stiffen and his eyes blaze, and she stays him with a gentle hand on his chest.

 

“You were named King in the North by your subjects who _swore_ their swords to you. Littlefinger did no such thing. He is a guest in our house, but he is not a liege Lord of the North. Do you understand? If you take his head, we will have House Arryn against us. We cannot afford to have any more enemies.”

 

Jon’s anger is not abated, she knows, so she says her next words carefully.

 

“I will speak to him. I will _make_ him leave Winterfell.”

 

“How will you manage this?” he asks her stiffly. “He won’t leave without you.”

 

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “But, we have no any proof that he is behind the ravens. You must remember that.”

 

As she moves to take her leave, her hand about to lift from his chest, he stops her when he raises his hand so that it falls on hers. He is silent, as he bows his head and she watches, just as he does, as their fingers entwine, whilst he still holds her close. When his eyes rise up to meet hers, his words are sincere, but his gaze is far from innocent.

 

“Thank you, Sansa.” She wonders if his heart under his leather is beating as maddeningly as hers. “I know that I don’t often listen.”

 

“It’s nothing,” she says, as she pulls her hand away and reluctantly lets his fingers fall from hers. “You’re learning.”

 

His smile is brief, and hers is sad.

 

Before she closes the door to the Great Hall, she sees the way Jon opens the parchment that had been crushed by his hand only moments ago. Sansa watches as he seats himself on the nearest chair, his eyes reading the same words over and over as a darkness settles in him and a sadness settles in her.

 

As she leaves, she hopes to one day tell him that no one reminds her of her father more than he does.


	11. Patience I : It Is Hard To Tolerate, Harder To Ignore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the simple reason that I hate mixing POVs within one chapter, this chapter will be divided into 2. I present to you, part 1.
> 
> Also, thank you again for letting me know your reactions to this story. Honestly, I have no idea what I'm doing. Thank you to the reviewers and the readers.

The silence in the Great Hall is unbearable.

 

Sansa cannot help but remember the silence that had followed when Joffrey Baratheon had once asked a man, which he would prefer, his hands or his tongue.

 

“How?” Jon asks quietly, his voice rough, the anger in him apparent.

 

Davos is just as displeased by the news, she knows. He seems disappointed in his own failings. Yet, how could they have known, Sansa wonders.

 

“He was given a blade, Your Grace. It’s a fairly ordinary knife. No markings. It can even be from our own kitchens.”

 

Jon says nothing, his fingers curling into fists and his breath slow and hard.

 

“He gave himself a quick death, Your Grace. The serving girl said that she was told someone new was to give him his meals, by your order. We believe that is how he was given the blade that he used to take his own life. No guards were killed, and the servants of your house have all been accounted for.”

 

“The new serving girl?” Jon asks.

 

“There is no trace of her. The gates have not been opened in days. We are confident that we _will_ find her. The women in the kitchens say that she has been here for several weeks past. She always did her duty and never complained.”

 

She sees the way her half-brother stands taller, the way his fists are almost white, and she knows what he intends to do.

 

“Jon, you can’t.”

 

He rounds on her fast, his gaze deadly. “He _killed_ the boy.”

 

Part of her wants nothing more than to remind him that their prisoner had taken his own life, but that would not have been sensible in his state. “We have no proof,” she says instead. “We _can’t_ do anything without it.”

 

“ _Hang_ proof!” He starts towards the doors, but Sansa stops him by moving to stand before him.

 

“What will you do? Put your hand on his throat until he confesses?”

 

“Aye,” he says angrily. "If I must."

 

She eyes him stubbornly, just as he eyes her, their silence broken only when her half-brother’s trusted advisor clears his throat. “The Lady is right, Your Grace. Without someone to prove this story, we will have to release him from the moment we put him in chains.”

 

Jon’s eyes do not leave hers, yet she sees the way he stiffens further. He has all the signs of a man who is about to commit an act that he does not want to commit.

 

His next words are slow, his voice hard. “Tell Lord Baelish that he is no longer welcome at Winterfell. Tell him, that if he and his company will not leave Winterfell by nightfall, I will _drag_ him out beyond the gates with mine own hands.”

 

Sansa agrees, relief on her features. “I will.”

 

She can see that his anger has not been abated. When Jon leaves them without another word, her eyes meet the Onion Knight’s gaze. He nods, and she smiles gratefully in return. He knows as well as her that her half-brother is nothing, if not impatient.

 

It does not take her long to hunt for Lord Baelish. She finds him easily enough. He is in the courtyard, watching as crates and boxes and chests are being placed on the carts he had arrived to Winterfell with.

 

“You’re leaving.” Sansa states the words as fact, her chest lightening with the thought.

 

His smile is almost sly, as if he knows why she had sought his presence. “I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

 

He turns to leave the courtyard and Sansa joins him, her steps falling alongside him with ease.

 

They are silent for a moment before she speaks again. “Did you have to kill him?”

 

He smiles, the way he always does when he takes great pleasure in the secrets he keeps. “I wish I knew what you speak of, My Lady.”

 

“Come now, Lord Baelish,” she says just as easily. “Why lie to one another? I thought we were friends.”

 

His gaze is calculating, his eyes falling onto her lips for a brief moment. “We are _more_ than friends.”

 

Sansa looks away, the blood under her skin prickly and cold. “I don’t understand,” she begins slowly. “What did you have to gain from all this?”

 

His laugh is short, and full of amusement. “What is it that they say about most men? _If you give them enough rope, they will hang themselves with it._ ”

 

She looks on him suspiciously. “Jon is not like most men.”

 

“No?” he asks mockingly, stalling them both. “So I assume that he _didn’t_ send ravens to the Northern Houses requesting that they don’t pay any heed to the warning that was sent to them regarding the lies about his birth right.”

 

Sansa is silent, panic rising in her chest, whilst her companion laughs again. “As I said, _most men.”_

 

“You sent seventy four ravens just to have Jon write to the Northern Lords?”

 

His smile mocks her, and Sansa’s patience depletes. “My dear girl, there weren’t even ten ravens. Even I’m not that wasteful. Seven ravens were sent to fly to the Vale at the precise moment your Onion Knight and Wildling were able to see.”

 

“The boy lied for you?” She can scarcely believe it. And yet, she still does not understand.

 

“A good lad,” Baelish says without a hint of remorse. “Tell me, how was his performance? He must have been convincing if you believed that there were seventy four ravens sent and Jon Snow believed that the boy had no knowledge of what he was doing.”

 

When she says nothing, his smile widens. “Go on. Ask me what you want to know.”

 

“Why would he lie for you?”

 

“He lied because he had to,” Baelish says with a twinkle in his eye. “His father was a Lord, before he gambled away his property and left the boy’s mother and two sisters destitute. The boy was ill. Dying, in fact. I asked for a favour, and I gave his family gold in return. A fair enough trade, I believe.”

 

Sansa falters, words leaving her. She cannot help but be wary when Petyr Baelish steps forward, his cheek almost brushing hers.

 

“Consider this before you go tell your _King_ what I have told you,” he says softly, his words almost mocking in their severity. “Your brother has no intention of claiming the North for himself. He will leave, and Winterfell can be yours. You can be the Wardeness of the North, like we spoke of. I have given you all the tools. All you must do now is _take_ it.”

 

She shivers at his words, the fear in her eyes apparent as she questions him. “What tools have you given me?”

 

His smile is slow, and lecherous in nature. “Why spoil the surprise? I have given you everything you might need.”

 

Her gaze narrows, the panic in her chest increasing. “You don’t have anything, do you? These are just words.”

 

“Are they?” He seems unaffected by her lack of faith.

 

“Tell me,” Sansa says, but she watches as he laughs. It is only a game to him, but Sansa knows that he would not act like this if his knowledge cannot be used. “ _Tell me_ ,” she says again, her gloved hand grabbing onto his arm.

 

It is her touch that causes his eyes to dull. “You are so like your mother that, sometimes, I forget…” He moves closer, his gaze falling onto her lips once again, his hand cupping her cheek, and Sansa lets him.

 

She breathes deeply, letting him have his fill as she asks him, “What do you know?”

 

“Do you really want to know?” His words are soft, and his hand tightens around her arm to bring her close.

 

She breathes out, “Yes,” for she knows that that is his undoing.

 

He smirks, leaning forward so that his lips brush against her ear as he says his words with pleasure. “Your Bastard brother, _may_ be a Bastard, but he is not your brother.”

 

Sansa feels her breath leave her. “You’re lying,” she says shakily.

 

But his arms have surrounded her, and his cheek nudges her neck, his lips grazing her ears softly. “Can you imagine what it felt like to know that the most honourable Eddard Stark had a Bastard son?” he says harshly against her skin. “For _years_ I looked for the woman, and what did I find?” His hand on her arm tightens, his grip hurting her, as he sneers his next words. “I find that he is even more honourable than I thought.” She cannot help but struggle against him, trying to free herself, but his arms hold her even tighter. “He never had a Bastard son. He never disrespected your mother, no matter how much I wanted him to. No, the great, _honourable_ Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell stole a babe from the bloody corpse of his sister and named it his.”

 

Petyr Baelish drops his arms from around her and steps back. Sansa finds herself breathing hard, but he is calm and composed, his smile light and the twinkle in his eye hiding none of the anger that he has shown her. “Winterfell is yours. Don’t ever say I gifted you nothing.”

 

Sansa cannot say any words. Nothing save a whisper of, “You’re lying.”

 

His smile is confident. “Yes, if I’m lying, then so is Howland Reed.”

 

“He told you this?”

 

Baelish smiles, _silly girl_ , his eyes seem to tell her. “He didn’t have to tell me anything. There were plenty of servant girls and boys in Dorne who were willing to say what they have seen for a silver coin or two. You collect enough coin and you collect enough stories to tell you what had really happened.”

 

“You could be wrong,” she says desperately.

 

He steps closer, his lips cold as he kisses her. “I’m never wrong, Sweetling,” he whispers, before he bows mockingly at her and takes his leave.

 

Sansa stands still, her thoughts as violent as her emotions. She does not know the truth of his words, but she has never known him to lie to her of his intentions. She knows what he wants. Once she is Wardeness of the North and sickly Robert Arryn dies, their alliance will not be ignored.

 

 _What of Jon?_ She wonders, the lie or the truth of Petyr Baelish’s words causing her turmoil. She must know, she realises with an aching heart. Yet, she chooses to ignore how much she wants his words to be true.


	12. Patience ll : Waiting Is Never Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I've been buried in all things SDCC the past few days. Hard not to be when you care what happens to 50 fandoms (I lie, it's more like 15). 
> 
> Thank you again for your kind and encouraging reviews. Here is Part 2.

Jon cannot help but wonder at the look that passes between his brother and his friend.

 

“He asked you that?” Bran asks quietly, watching Meera, just as her gaze flits briefly towards Jon before they meet his brother’s eyes. Even in the candlelight of the Lord’s Chamber, Jon can see how Bran’s features change. He had been laughing and smiling not a moment before Jon had entered to inquire after what Lord Baelish had asked of Meera, mere moments before his party had departed Winterfell.

 

Jon steps closer, intrigued by their shared looks. “Tell me what he asked of you.”

 

Yet, Meera keeps her gaze on Bran, her voice soft, yet not too soft for Jon not to hear. “You must tell him.”

 

Bran’s eyes widen as he shakes his head in a quick movement. He has panic in his eyes, and he does not look at Jon.

 

“What do you need to tell me?” Jon asks, his voice steady, whilst his heart panics. He wonders about what Lord Baelish might know that he does not. Perhaps it is of a far worse foe that lies beyond the wall. Perhaps it is about his younger brother’s health. “Bran!” he says forcefully, his tone making his half-brother meet his eyes. “You must tell me.”

 

Bran looks at Meera with betrayal whilst she smiles with encouragement at him, before she stands from her seat on the bed and takes her leave without another word. Their behaviour confuses Jon; more so when he sits beside his brother on the very place the girl had been seated. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

 

Bran is silent for a while, choosing to study the flame dancing on the closest candle rather than look at him. “Did he really ask her that?” he finally asks Jon. “Did Lord Baelish really ask her to give his regards to her Lord Father because his loyalty at the Tower of Joy cannot be matched?”

 

“That was my understanding. Although, I must admit, I understand very little of why he asked what he asked of her.”

 

“How do you know he asked her this?”

 

“Ser Davos suggested we keep our friends closer with the help of other, more loyal friends. It was never my intention to let Lord Baelish walk freely within the walls of Winterfell without an escort.”

 

“An escort he didn’t know was escorting him, you mean.”

 

“Aye, yet, since he knows more about the happenings in the castle more than any other, I will have to admit that he probably knew of his escort all along. I have known him for a short while, but it is clear that he does nothing without a reason.”

 

When Bran nods and turns to look away from him, Jon sighs.

 

“He would not have mentioned such a thing to Meera, knowing that I would hear, unless he wanted me to know some fact. He would not have said ‘ _Your father and Lord Stark were part of the last two Great Northern Houses that holds no cowards or frauds._ '” Jon watches his brother carefully, noting the way the young Stark’s features stay closed to him. “Bran, if you know anything, I need to know what it is. I don’t trust him. I need to know what he knows.”

 

“Maybe it’s better if you don’t…” Bran says thoughtfully, his voice small and hopeful.

 

“Tell me what you know. Let me be the judge of that.”

 

His brother says nothing, and so Jon feels his patience lessen.

 

“Why will you not tell me?”

 

“Because I don’t _want_ to,” Bran says harshly, the frustration in his demeanour apparent. “ _Everything_ has changed. I don’t _want_ anything more to change. I _know_ I was given this knowledge for a reason. I know that. I know that it’s important you know this. Meera knows this too. Since the day I opened my eyes, we have argued over this fact. She has wanted me to tell you since the day I woke up.”

 

Jon schools his features to prepare for the news of death and destruction, for what other tidings could his brother give him that would cause him such ire? He places his hand on the back of his brother’s neck, forcing him to meet his eyes that are full of affection.

 

“If things change, things change. We cannot be selfish and we cannot be cowards. You’re a Stark, you’ve lived beyond the Wall and you’ve survived White Walkers. You shouldn’t be afraid of anything.”

 

He sees the way Bran’s eyes become saddened, the way he nods. “I don’t want to lose my family.”

 

“Neither do I. Now, tell me,” Jon says with a grin, “or I’ll box your ears the way Old Nan used to.”

 

Bran does not smile, which only serves for Jon’s own smile to fall as he drops his hand from his brother and waits for him to speak.

 

It takes a while, but when Bran finally speaks, his voice is soft. “Did you wonder why I didn’t ask after my mother, Robb and Rickon?”

 

Jon stiffens, fear coursing through him as well as anger. “Who told you?”

 

“No one.” Bran shakes his head sadly. “I saw it.”

 

Jon’s confusion is apparent, so Bran continues, his words halting only for a moment.

 

“I... I have the greensight, Jon. If you ask me, I cannot explain it, but I saw it. I saw the way Walder Frey slaughtered Robb and his bannermen. I saw the way my mother died.”

 

Jon shakes his head, for surely his brother must be mistaken.

 

“I saw the way you rode to save Rickon before an arrow pierced his heart,” Bran whispers sadly. Before Jon can say a word, Bran continues. “I saw father.”

 

Jon cannot help but look at his half-brother then, curiosity apparent in his features. “What did you see?”

 

Bran smiles sadly, a wistful look in his eye. “I saw him praying in the Godswood.” He pauses, his expression regretful. “I also saw what happened at the Tower of Joy.”

 

Jon looks on his brother with sadness. He has seen magic with his own eyes and a God he does not worship brought him back from the dead. Surely, his brother must be speaking the truth. “Lord Baelish’s spies must have heard you and Meera argue,” he says thoughtfully. “Why was this so important? We all know the tale. Father battled Ser Arthur Dayne, and brought the bones of his sister back to Winterfell. What more can there be?”

 

Bran had spoken freely until this moment. Now, he hesitates, and Jon can see the war he wages within himself.

 

“Bran…” he says gently. “What happened at the Tower of Joy? Was Uncle Benjen wrong in his stories?”

 

Jon thinks that the silence between them seems longer because of his own impatience. Yet, he waits until a look of boldness colours Bran’s eyes and he says his next words softly.

 

“I saw her… Father’s sister… Aunt Lyanna.” Bran pauses once again as Jon eyes him in confusion. Bran’s next words are slow, his gaze meaningful. “He was with her when she died. She…” Bran looks away.

 

Jon cannot help but think of all things he had learned from his Uncle Benjen when he had been in his cups.

_Your father was heartbroken,_ Uncle Benjen had said once to a young Jon, his tone sad. _He couldn’t save her. She was already dead. Nothing has haunted your father more._

“What is it?” Jon cannot help but ask softly.

 

He watches as Bran takes a breath, stealing himself for his next words. “She had a babe with her. A son…”

 

 _No matter,_ Uncle Benjen had laughed bitterly. _He might have lost his sister, but dear ol’ Ned gained a son shortly after. And I gained a nephew,_ Uncle Benjen had said with a smile as he ruffled Jon’s hair.

 

Jon does not realise he is on his feet as Bran speaks softly, “She said that Robert Baratheon would kill her babe if he knew. She asked father to protect him.”

 

 _I never took your father for that sort,_ Uncle Benjen had said seriously. _He was always too honourable, too good. But I’m glad he brought you home to Winterfell._

“She was dying, Jon,” Bran says softly, even as Jon steps away from him with confusion in his look. “She begged father to promise her that he would protect her babe at all cost.”

 

_Cat was not too happy, of course. But Ned wouldn’t hear of it. He’s my son, he said. He will not hear any more of it. He never had to say those words again, because he’s a Stark and our words are our honour._

“Father promised her,” Bran said sadly, his voice barely a whisper. “Father promised her that he will protect her babe from his friend before she died.”

 

_The thing is, he never told anyone who your mother is, Jon. He never said a name, never mentioned anything of her. I always thought that he might have loved her, in his own way. For only love could make my brother forget his honour. If he hadn’t loved her, if he hadn’t loved you, he might have sent you away._

Bran is silent as Jon turns his back towards him, his chest hurting and his breathing difficult. It is with dismay that Jon realises that his hands are shaking. Bowing his head, he clasps his hands together, pausing his breath to stop the fear that has taken hold of him. He wishes he could speak, but he has no voice.

 

Bran says his name quietly; his voice full of regret, and Jon cannot help but stand taller after a few moments of concentrated breath.

 

“You were mistaken,” he says roughly, his eyes hard as he turns towards his brother. “You have been hunted for many a moon’s turn. You have been without food and water—”

 

“No!” Bran’s expression is one of surprise, his voice forceful. “I’m not lying. I saw this.”

 

But Jon does not listen. He _cannot_ listen. His hands still shake. “It is understandable that you would think that you were seeing things that were not there. You were mistaken.”

 

“I wasn’t!”

 

“ _You were_!” he says harshly, his voice loud and inviting no further argument. He regrets his words, and shame makes him look away. “You were fighting for your life without food or water,” he says again, his voice much calmer, and his words slow. But his hands still shake and he wants nothing more than to hold them in snow and watch his fingers become numb. “You were scared. You thought you saw some things which you didn’t, which is understandable.”

 

He finally looks to Bran, and he feels disappointment in himself when he sees the hurt in the younger Stark’s eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

 

“You were mistaken,” Jon says again, his words even slower, more forceful.

 

Bran says nothing, and Jon stands stiffly before he decides to bid him goodnight.

 

“You should rest,” Jon says as his parting words before he decides to take his leave. He ignores the Reed girl who steps back in surprise when he opens the door. Instead, he marches away from the Lord’s Chamber, his hands curling into fists and his fingers itching for the handle of his sword.

 

There’s a throbbing in his head and a pain in his chest that feels as if it could burst within moments.

 

And an anger growing inside him that he never thought would ever be directed towards everyone and no one.


	13. Humility l : It's Not Pity If It's True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't agree with everything the characters I write do. In some chapters, like this one, I have the surreal experience of saying to myself 'If i wrote this, this wouldn't have happened'. But I did write it, and as much as I personally disagree with some of the choices Sansa makes (because I'm almost always on Jon's side in the books - my bias is real), her choices are based on how D&D have written her in Season 6. We haven't seen this side of Sansa in the books, so that's what I'm basing it on. 
> 
> I really don't agree with what she's doing here. Alas, her character is not mine. I'm just borrowing her. 
> 
> Also, thanks again for the reviews. As you must have noticed, Humility will have 2 Parts. This is Part 1.

There are letters he must tend to; Jon knows this. A letter from Edd lie above others, bringing good tidings of Sam who had reached Oldtown with Gilly and her babe, as well as news about the four and twenty men Jon had sent to take the Black. Men who had once called Ramsay Snow their liege Lord and had survived the battle he had brought to Winterfell, will now protect the Wall from those who threaten it. While another letter, still to be completed, addressed to the Hand of the Queen, still lie on his table in his chamber. 

Instead, Jon finds himself standing before the warm fire, looking at the parchment that held the words once crafted by Petyr Baelish. 

_“Jon Snow is not the Bastard of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. He is a Bastard son of another. He is a fraud. A coward. Hear my warning, my Lords, for he will ruin you and your Great Northern Houses.”_

He does not believe it. He cannot believe it. Spiteful words penned by a spiteful man, it is nothing more. 

_I will not lie to you_ , his father had once told him. _For that reason, I cannot tell you of your mother. However, one day, when you’re old enough, I will tell you all you need know._

Jon cannot imagine that Lord Eddard Stark, who valued truth and honour above all else and expected as such from his kin, would lie to his wife, his children and the men who served under him. It’s unthinkable. He could not imagine a life where Robb was not his brother, where Arya was not his little sister. How could he not think of Bran and Rickon, of memories of them when they were young, laughing and playing, as children who were _not_ his little brothers? 

He remembers the way he mussed Arya’s hair, the way he called her pretty and she called him stupid. He remembers the way Robb clapped him on the back and called him ‘Brother’ more often than ‘Snow’. He remembers the day Robb had told him, _it’s horrid to think it. Because even though Father dishonoured my Mother, he gave me a brother who I would have chosen myself, if I could. I will miss you, Snow. Never forget that Winterfell is your home, even after you take the Black._

Spiteful words penned by a spiteful man, he thinks, as Jon drops the parchment into the fire and watches whilst the words burn. There had been a moment when Jon had packed bread and cheese, had his sword tied on his hip and a large cloak resting on his shoulders with the intention of riding through the night towards Greywater Watch. He had made it as far as the stables before he had slowed, reason keeping him from riding his steed in the dead of night to visit a man Lord Baelish would want him to visit. For that reason alone, Jon had returned to his chambers. 

He does not move, his eyes still fixed on the fire where the words had once been, even as he hears a firm knock on the door. “Enter,” he calls without thought, for he is not surprised when Sansa enters his bedchamber and closes the door softly after her. 

When he turns towards her, he cannot help but note the steadfast expression she wears, nor the way she stands, as if she is steeling herself for a battle. 

“What is it?”

She holds his gaze unwaveringly. “Bran spoke to me. He told me what had transpired between you.”

“He was mistaken,” Jon says, his gaze falling back to where the words had once been in the fire. “He could not have known for sure of what he saw.”

“Yes, he told me that you said that. You should know… I’ve sent a rider to call on Howland Reed.”

Jon’s gaze falls on her incredulously, his expression one of betrayal. 

She falters at the way he looks at her, but only for a moment. “We can expect Lord Reed at Winterfell in a few short days, if the weather holds.”

He cannot keep his anger at bay. He cannot hide it the way he knows he should. “You had no right—”

“I have _every_ right. This is not for you, Jon. It’s for me.” He watches the way she breathes deeply before she continues. “Howland Reed is coming to meet _me_. You need not speak to him, you need not look at him or greet him. Whatever he tells me will remain between the two of us. I will not speak a word of it to anyone, including you, unless you want me to.”

He feels his shoulders fall, he knows he cannot hide the helplessness he feels when he asks her, “Why are you doing this?” For he cannot understand such an action on her part. 

Her features soften, and there’s regret in her eyes. “I need to know. I’m sorry, Jon.”

She steps back with the intention of leaving, and Jon cannot stop himself. “Don’t do this.” He realises that he’s pleading and he wishes that he does not. Yet, at this moment, nothing causes fear in his heart more than what Lord Reed might say. 

“ _Why_ does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“If you are _so_ sure that Bran is mistaken—”

“I’m not.” 

She does not look away from him, her eyes wide with understanding. And Jon cannot help but be ashamed at the confession he had just made. 

“Would it be so bad?” she asks softly. Her eyes are kind as she moves towards him and Jon does not mean it, yet he steps back from her touch. “We would be cousins.”

He looks away from her, the brief thought of kissing her, touching her, _owning_ her the way he wants her to own him flitting briefly in his mind before he forces the thought away. Were the Gods so uncaring that they would take away his family so that he could think of her on such terms and not feel guilt? Could they be so heartless? 

“You think it true?” he asks her softly, his heart dreading her answers. 

“I don’t know what to think,” she answers honestly. “But I _do_ know that I want to know the truth, even if you don’t.” 

She is about to take her leave, and so Jon grabs her wrist gently, the fight leaving him. He holds her close to him, his voice soft and his gaze holding hers. “Please don’t do this,” he begs again, and he sees the way she falters at his words. 

“Why?”

He knows then that nothing but the truth would do. She would know if he lied and he would not have any sway over her actions. But the truth…

“I would rather…” he begins softly, his voice rough. “I would rather be the Bastard son of Eddard Stark than be the son of a Targaryen raper.”

She winces, and he thinks again of how he would hurt Ramsay Snow over and over if he could. 

She says his name regretfully and he knows that she means to still speak to Howland Reed of this. 

“If you do this…” He shakes his head, his voice sad. “You might be taking my father away from me.” 

“If I do this, I might give you a mother. You understand that, don’t you? If you speak to him—”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t. I told you, you need not speak to him if that is your wish.”

“Then why tell me that you have summoned him?”

For a while she’s silent, studying his features as he studies hers. “Because I _want_ you to speak to him with me. I _want_ you to know the truth.” He let’s go of her wrist only to feel her fingers hold onto his hand to keep him from turning away from her. “Regardless if this is true or not, you have the blood of the First Men in your veins. You are a _Stark_. You _must_ see that.” 

He tries to step away from her, because he’s not convinced, yet Sansa pulls him closer, her voice unwavering. 

“Jon, tell me you understand.”

He doesn’t. “I was Eddard Stark’s son. I might have been a Bastard but I was _his_ Bastard son. I would _always_ choose that title over being any other Lord’s trueborn son.”

“And now you’re the King in the North,” she says softly, a small smile playing on her lips. 

“Aye, a feat that would not have happened had I not been the son of Eddard Stark. The Lords—”

“Forget the Lords. This is about _you_. How could you not want to know?”

“No good can come of it,” he says harshly. 

Her eyes widen, and he knows that he has insulted her. “No good can come of it? Is that what you truly think?”

He thinks again of how sweet her lips once were and how close she stands to him at this moment. 

His silence bodes too long for Sansa, for her hand leaves his and she stands straighter. “I want to know. I’m sorry you don’t. I promise you, I will not speak a word of his truth to you unless you want me to.”

She does not wait to hear his thoughts further, for she takes her leave without another word. 

Jon promptly burns the partly written letter of assent addressed to Tyrion Lannister.


	14. Humility ll : It Is What They Strive For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cursed Child kept me busy. 
> 
> So, this chapter is longer than most, and we are even closer to the end. Jon has such a chip on his shoulder. Geez (I say with much love) 
> 
> Thank you again for your lovely reviews and encouraging words. I hope to finish this story as soon as I can.

There had been an instant, Sansa remembers, from the moment Lord Howland Reed had departed Winterfell, when her gaze had met Jon’s. He had smiled briefly at the man as they had bid farewell, a smile that had fallen the moment his eyes had met hers. She had not been privy to Lord Reed’s visit, choosing to wait patiently until Jon had spoken to him and told her what the Crannogman had told him. And even though her suspicions were confirmed at that moment, so was the suspicion that he was angry with her.

 

The days following, when she rarely saw him besides the instances when he had been in the training yard, emerging victor time and again with a barely concealed rage behind every stroke of the sword, Sansa could not help but wonder if he imagined her face on his opponent’s to cut them down so quickly.

 

He had met Bran shortly after Lord Reed’s visit, she knows, although her brother had shaken his head when she had asked after Jon. _He must be the one to tell you,_ Bran had said. _I’m sorry, Sansa. I really wish I could._

 

Yet, it is barely over a week when she is finally summoned to the Great Hall, and it is with a bitter disappointment that she realises that she is not alone. The Onion Knight bows his welcome, and her smile is strained. Jon does not look at her when he tells them both what she had long suspected. He stands tall, his words grim, whilst Sansa listens while standing beside Jon’s advisor. She thinks that she has never seen him so sad, so lost. She thinks that she has never wanted to comfort him more.

 

The silence after Jon says his peace is long. Sansa says nothing as she watches the man that she can now call her cousin, keep his eyes on the Onion Knight and not on her, his expression closed and without emotion.

 

“I… apologise, Your Grace,” Ser Davos says with a frown, “But this complicates matters. I admit, I cannot truly say that I understand the ways of the North after only a few moons, yet one thing is apparent. The North does not take kindly to those with the blood of Southerners. Nor do they take kindly to the blood of dragons. I would advice against letting anyone know your true parentage.”

 

Sansa cannot help but disagree, her voice calm, yet commanding. “He must tell the Northern Houses.”

 

“My Lady—”

 

“Lord Petyr Baelish _wanted_ my brother—” She stops herself, the slip of her tongue causing her cheeks to redden slightly as she sees Jon look away from her. “My _cousin_ to know about his parents. Which means that if Jon does not share this knowledge then _he_ would. We could deny it, but the suspicion alone would divide the North.”

 

“If he tells the truth himself, no one would question it.”

 

“Which is why Lord Baelish wanted Jon to know this.” She watches as Jon paces away from them, his brows furrowed in thought. “And yet, that doesn’t matter. I know that Jon would want to tell the Northern Lords of his parentage. It’s how my father raised him,” she says softly, her gaze meeting his briefly.

 

She sees the truth of her words in his eyes before Jon faces Ser Davos. “There is one thing Lord Baelish does not know.”

 

At this, Sansa watches Jon with as much confusion as the Knight does. Jon does not betray any emotion as he speaks his next words as if the news is as far removed from him as it could be.

 

“Lyanna Stark married Rhaegar Targaryen while in Dorne. A Maester saw to this.”

 

Ser Davos is as silent as Sansa, as she watches the stern expression of a man who looks more like her father than anyone she has ever known, save for her Uncle Benjen.

 

“If a Maester saw to this,” Ser Davos says slowly, “then the truth of the matter can be easily seen. You said you have a friend at Oldtown learning to be a Maester, Your Grace. If the Maester did, indeed, marry Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, then there would be proof in their books.”

 

Sansa eyes the Onion Knight in surprise. “If this marriage was in the books, how could no one know?”

 

“The Maesters take an oath to the family they serve, My Lady. The Maesters in Oldtown don’t care for the battles of Lords and Kings. They serve by keeping knowledge for who so wishes to seek it.”

 

“It does not matter,” Jon says with an air of detachment. “This will not change my name. I was born a Snow, I will die a Snow.”

 

“Your Grace, I would not be doing my duty to serve you to the best of my ability if I do not disagree with you.” Ser Davos steps forward, his agitation apparent. “If this is true, if it can be proved, then you have the blood of two great houses in you. You have a claim to the Iron Throne.”

 

“I have never wanted that.”

 

“That may be, but I do not speak of conquering the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace. When the long night comes, when the dead rises, we will need every sworn sword with us, not against us. You can unite the Kingdoms against the dead, we can have ten times the men we already have.”

 

Sansa chooses to speak then, her thoughts still stinted yet clear. “He does not need to claim the throne to have his army, Ser.” Her eyes meet Jon’s, and she sees him warily watch her, a touch of curiosity in his look. “If this can be proved, then you are bound to the Dragon Queen by your blood. Let her fight Cersei Lannister and claim the throne. You can keep the North under your rule and you have a reason to unite your armies.”

 

She sees the way Ser Davos nods in agreement, yet his expression stay troubled. “You speak the truth, My Lady. But there is another issue. To do this, we will have to prove what Lord Reed had sworn. I cannot see the North bowing to a Targaryen, not after everything that has happened.”

 

“Stark blood runs through Jon’s veins.”

 

“That may be,” Ser Davos says delicately. “Unfortunately, it is the blood of his mother, not of his father. As you said, the North is loyal. Yet, the loyalty is placed by the side of the blood of the father, and not of the mother, as much as it pains me to say.” He pauses. “There is a way to strengthen your claim to the North, Your Grace.”

 

Sansa watches Jon carefully, her fingers digging into her own wrist that she holds. “You mean marriage, Ser Davos.”

 

The Onion Knight nods, and Jon stares at her with surprise in his look. “If you marry a Lady from a reputed Northern House, any doubt that you would put the North under Targaryen rule as it was before the Rebellion can be proved otherwise.”

 

“Who would you suggest I marry, Ser Davos?” Jon asks softly. “The only Northern House with daughters of marriageable age, which has any army or clout, has the name Umber. They betrayed our family by giving Rickon to his murderer. Then there is Lady Lyanna Mormont, who is but a child of ten. I may need the support of the North, but I will not marry a child to keep it.”

 

Sansa feels her chest lighten. Her happy countenance lasting only a moment before Ser Davos turns towards her. “Then if My Lady does not protest—”

 

“No,” Jon says, his voice stern and inviting no further argument. “She has married a Lannister and a Bolton and the latter was more than I would ever wish for an enemy of mine.” He meets her gaze, and she sees sadness there. “She has suffered enough. I won’t make her suffer again for my sake.” When Jon turns towards Ser Davos once again, he is composed. “I have listened to your counsel and I will think on it. I cannot make any promises as to what my choices will be.”

 

The dismissal is swift, and the Onion Knight bows before he takes his leave, unhappily so. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

 

Jon turns his back to her, as Ser Davos leaves, and Sansa recognises her own dismissal from the Great Hall. Yet, she chooses to ignore it, and instead voice her own suspicion that had formed in her mind from the way Jon had acted towards the news.

 

“You intend Bran to become King in the North.”

 

She sees the way his shoulders fall, she hears the way he sighs. She knows that he had hoped that she would leave, and yet she stands where she stands, defiant as she always is.

 

When he turns to face her, she sees the truth of her words in his gaze. “I have kept my promise,” he says. “I haven’t told a soul that he has returned. But he _has_ returned. The reason I was crowned King in the North was because they thought that all of Eddard Stark’s trueborn sons were dead. Bran has returned. It’s his title, just as it was Robb’s.”

 

“You know Bran doesn’t want this.”

 

He smiles bitterly. “We don’t always get what we want.”

 

“He won’t take it.”

 

“I can convince him.”

 

“You can threaten him or make promises, he won’t take it.”

 

“Is this why you’re here?” he asks her suddenly, his tone sharp. “To tell me what I can’t do?”

 

She cannot help but be silent for a moment as she watches him, his words upsetting her. “You’re angry with me.”

 

Her words only serve to anger him further, she can see. She sees the way his back stiffens, the way his eyes turn cold. “You should leave,” he says, his words slow and controlled.

 

Yet, Sansa is stubborn, and so she steps forward instead. “No.” The word is soft, but strong, and it thrills her that he is so affected by her presence that he glares at her angrily, frustration apparent in every muscle.

 

“Sansa…”

 

She does not stop until she is but a foot away from him, her eyes defiant as his is in turmoil. “I know you’re angry,” she says with regret. “I did what I thought was right. I can’t apologise for that.”

 

Her words only serve to annoy him further. He steps away from her, his anger apparent. “It was not your choice to make.”

 

She agrees. “You would have never made that choice.”

 

“That means _you should_?” he asks, harshly. “This changes _everything!_ ”

 

“Why is that so bad?”

 

He scoffs as he turns away from her, and she knows he is trying not to say harsher words than he already has. But she has lived a life through Ramsay Bolton. Jon could never hurt her the way she has already been hurt, with words or otherwise.

 

“Your mother hated me,” he says finally, his words pained. “So did you.”

 

She knows that he wishes to hurt her the way she had hurt him and she knows that she should not be hurt by the truth, but his words do cause her pain. Regret is not an emotion Sansa ever enjoys, and her treatment of him from when she was a child holds nothing but regret for her.

 

When she speaks, her words are just as soft and just as pained. “That’s not fair.”

 

“Is that why you speak to me now?” he asks, his tone almost violent. “Is it because I am no longer a Bastard? Is it because I have Targaryen blood in me? Royal blood,” he says in a way that mocks the child she once was. A child who had believed in princes and songs.

 

“Jon…” Her voice shakes but he pays no heed.

 

“Is it because I am no longer a threat to you and your family? It’s all of that, isn’t it? But it’s more. It’s because I am no longer a Stark. I am no longer part of your family.”

 

“Stop it.” Her voice hardens.

 

“You have _hated_ me from the moment you knew I was a Bastard. You have wanted me gone for _years_ and now you finally have it.”

 

“Stop it, Jon,” she begs him.

 

“I am no Stark. I am not Eddard Stark’s son and you have your wish. Cheers, My Lady, for the day you so wished has finally come upon you and you can rest easily with the knowledge that I am no brother to you.”

 

“ _Stop it_!” she yells, and he finally stops, his breath coming hard and fast, his chest rising and falling while his face betrays the surprise he feels.

 

When he sees the tears that fall unbidden from her eyes, his face colours with shame. “Sansa…”

 

Yet he cannot say more, and so she speaks.

 

“I was a _child_.” The tears burn her eyes, but she continues. “I loved my mother, and I _hated_ how much it hurt her to see you playing with Robb and Arya. I wanted to hate you, but I couldn’t. You were too good, too kind. They _all_ loved you and you had them. Mother had me. She _only_ had me.”

 

Her words serve to sap his strength. She sees the way regret enters his eyes, the way he wants to say more but no words escape him.

 

“You said there was nothing to forgive,” she says finally, and she sees the way he looks at her, humiliated by his outburst. “That was not true, was it?”

 

He is silent for a while before he finally speaks, his words heavy and saddened. “I wish I didn’t feel this way.”

 

“What do you want from me, Jon?” she asks, utterly defeated, her fingers delicately wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I cannot change what has happened.”

 

“I don’t expect you to,” he says, but Sansa cannot help but think that he does not believe his own words.

 

“Is this what is to become of us?” she asks sadly. “Will you hate me for as long as I live?”

 

He shakes his head, and when he looks at her, there is something else in his gaze. Something hidden and deep; something that makes her shiver. “I could never hate you.”

 

“Then what do you _want_ from me, Jon?” Her voice is one of frustration because she wishes she can understand him. “What do you wan—”

 

His steps are quick, his hands going to her face only for a moment before his lips are on hers and her words are silenced. This is not a kiss that Knights give Ladies or the chaste kisses she has heard in songs. Jon devours her, his lips parting hers, her tongue meeting his, whilst her own hands pull him closer by his hair and his bearded cheek. Their bodies are close, too close to place a blade through, and his hands move from her neck, to her shoulder, only to pull her impossibly closer when his palm travels down the length of her spine to the small of her back while a shiver of excitement runs through her.

 

She wonders vaguely why songs have not been sung of this. Of how a touch can excite her, or of how the tingle under her skin can become a thrumming of need for something so much more that any and all thoughts can flee from her mind besides him. _Jon_ , she thinks. _My Jon. Only mine._

 

He pulls away just as suddenly as he had kissed her, his forehead resting on hers and his breath harsh and warm against her lips, even as his eyes stay closed.

 

“Was this wrong?” he asks softly, his voice rough and breathless.

 

“No,” Sansa says quickly, and she watches him as his eyes finally open. They are darker than she has ever seen, warmth spreading through her at the way he looks at her. “No,” she says again as her hand cups his cheek and brings his face closer. “Not wrong, never wrong.”

 

He does not kiss her lips, but instead, kisses her inflamed cheek. Had Sansa not been a lady she would have whined in protest.

 

“I should go,” he says regretfully, even though his arms still stay around her and he places a light kiss on her neck that says otherwise.

 

She pulls him closer, her words heavy. “You can stay.” Her words sound desperate to her own ears, yet she cannot bring herself to care. She has never before felt the way he has made her feel and she was loathed to not continue to feel it.

 

His arms tighten around her, and he sinks into her embrace further, but his words stay strong, a small laugh escaping him, even as his gaze tells her what he would rather do. “If I don’t leave now, I might never leave.” He kisses her neck once again and she shivers as he lets her go.

 

He is dishevelled in his look, as she knows she is as well. Sansa does not think their separation will last too long, for Jon’s gaze falls on her lips and he starts towards her, only to stop when the doors of the Great Hall are thrown open and the booming voice of Tormund Giantsbane practically shakes the stone.

 

“And where the fuck have you been?” The Wildling stops, his gaze wide, before the widest grin splits his face.

 

Jon steps in front of her, covering her from his view. “You should learn to knock,” he says sternly, although there is no real bite to his words.

 

Tormund chooses to ignore his words, a loud laugh escaping him. “And here I thought you Southerners didn’t steal your women.”

 

Sansa feels her cheeks becoming unbearably warm as she tries to make herself presentable before stepping out from behind Jon. She feels better when she sees the blush colouring his own cheeks. A look passes between them before she raises her head and addresses the Wildling. “Tormund.”

 

“Girl,” he says mockingly, his eyebrows rising and falling with suggestion that makes her blush worse.

 

She does not say another word, choosing to practically rush out of the Great Hall as soon as she can.

 

Just before she closes the door, she hears Tormund’s booming laugh. “So that’s why you haven’t used your prick since we came here. And here I thought the bloody thing had fallen off.”

 

She closes the door faster, after that, wondering why Tormund had not seemed as offended as she thought anyone might be having caught them as they were. Perhaps Jon had told him the truth of his parentage or perhaps, brothers and sisters were different North of the Wall. Regardless, Sansa cannot help but smile, her cheeks hot from the sheer memory of the way she was kissed not a moment ago.

 

She had wanted more, she knows.

 

She still wants more.


	15. Chastity l : To Have The Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This too will also be in two parts. Damn my hatred of mixing POVs. 
> 
> Thank you all for your reviews. Seriously. You're all so kind about this little experiment.

_It is a day for letters_ , Jon thinks, as he reads what Sam had sent him. In a few short words, his friend had proven what he had not dared hope for. It is true then, Rhaegar Targaryen had one living son in the world that was raised by a man of the North, who loved his sister so strongly, that he brought dishonour to his name.

 

_The Wolf is bound to the Dragon. The words do not lie._

 

He is not a Bastard anymore. He was never a Bastard. And yet, this reality is harder to accept than most.

 

Would Jon have done this for Arya? Aye, he thinks. He would not have hesitated to do so. He cannot help but still think of her as his sister, as he still thinks of Robb, Bran and Rickon as his brothers.

 

 _I don’t care what all of this means,_ Bran had told him. _You’re my brother._ Jon had embraced him tightly then, thanking him, for he confessed that he felt the same.

 

Sansa… in his mind, he calls her ‘cousin’.

 

It is hard to remember this fact. For when she kisses him sweetly, his hands stay respectfully on her arm, her shoulder or her back. His touch does not venture where he wants it to, for he cannot help but think of the man he still secretly calls his father and the disapproval Jon might have faced had Eddard Stark lived. And sometimes, when his gaze falls on her hair, he thinks of how Catelyn Stark would have hated him more, knowing that he was the reason she had felt dishonoured by her husband, when he had done no such thing.

 

And so he pulls away, much as it pains him, while she pulls him closer, and it takes more strength than she will ever know for Jon not to listen to his baser instincts and kiss her hard, to be drowned by her and raise her skirts.

 

When the door opens to the bedchamber that is not his, Jon stands straighter, and watches as relief colours Sansa’s face as she closes the door behind her.

 

“When I couldn’t find you, I feared you might have gone after Bran.”

 

Jon sighs. “What would be the point? You sent four men after him.”

 

“Not to bring him back,” she says, which upsets Jon further. “I sent them to protect Bran and Meera.”

 

“I should bring him back to Winterfell,” he says softly, almost to himself, regret heavy in his chest. When the news had reached them it had been too late. Bran had left with the Reed girl at first light. The Reed girl who Jon had watched embrace her father amidst tears as she spoke of her lost brother.

 

“He is no longer a child, Jon. None of us are,” she says sadly, her steps soft as she moves to stand before him. “I don’t know why Bran is insistent to go beyond the Wall, but I trust him.”

 

“Is that why you sent four sworn swords to spy on him?” he asks with mild amusement.

 

“I suspected he was preparing for his journey when food went missing from the kitchens. Besides, Meera was upset with him for a long while because he didn’t speak to you of what he saw. She had forgiven him when you brought her father to see her.”

 

“Meera told you this?”

 

“She didn’t have to.”

 

Sansa moves closer, and her lips taste of wine as they meet his. _Forgive me, Father,_ Jon thinks as he deepens the kiss, his burned hand coming to rest on her cheek to hold her close. The movement is slow, practiced, and when she pulls away, her eyes are hooded, her cheeks flushed and a small smile graces her lips. Jon cannot help but trace her lips with his thumb, wondering when her kisses will make him smile as widely as her.

 

When her eyes meet his, she stares at him with worry. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Sam sent a raven.”

 

She looks down and takes the parchment he offers her, her brows furrowed in thought as she reads. Jon watches the way her expression reveals nothing save for deep thought.

 

“It’s true, then,” she says quietly. “There is Dragonglass at Dragonstone. When do you leave?”

 

“I hope to collect a party and leave before the week ends. The weather should hold by then, at least.”

 

She nods, and he sees the way her eyes are saddened.

 

“That’s not all it says.”

 

“I never doubted it to be surprised by this,” she says softly. “You?”

 

“Sam is probably giggling with glee, I think,” Jon says with a wistful smile. “He always teased me that I was meant for great things and that I never listened.”

 

His smile falls, when she eyes him with worry. “You need to marry.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Bran has left.”

 

“He will return.”

 

“Jon.”

 

She says his name, that is all it takes, and Jon falters. He knows he is stubborn, and reckless and he hopes beyond times when hope is very clearly lost. That is his way and his brothers killed him for it.

 

“You are the Wardeness of the North,” he says slowly. “I know we haven’t called you as such, but you and I both know that you are more than capable with this title. I will convince the Lords to name you Queen and I will be your Commander, if you will have me.”

 

He sees the way her eyes widen, and he knows that she wants this. Yet, her expression changes a moment later, and she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “This is exactly what Lord Baelish wants.”

 

Every time he hears the man’s name, he feels anger, his fingers forming into fists for a brief moment before he looks on her with confusion. “Is there anything this man has not thought of?”

 

“In my experience,” she says sadly, “not very many. It has to be you, Jon. You cannot give me such a title. Or if you do, I cannot be without a husband. He will make it so that I will have to marry him. I don’t know how yet, but I trust that he has his plan and it will work because none of us know what it truly is.”

 

“And if I fall during battle…”

 

Her eyes widen, and her expression is stricken. “Don’t speak of such things.”

 

He is saddened by her expression, so he moves towards her, his words soft and sincere, as his hands take hers. “Promises cannot be made when men go to war.”

 

“They call you the greatest swordsman in the North. Surely—”

 

“What is a swordsman against an army of the undead?”

 

“You _have_ a Valyrian blade.”

 

“Aye, and I will fight, and I might fall, and you need to be here to rule.”

 

He sees the tears in her eyes and he curses himself. He has never wanted to be the reason for her to cry, and yet, twice now, he has done just that.

 

She lets him place his hand on her cheek, and his heart aches when she kisses his burned palm. Then she stiffens, her eyes clearing, and when her gaze meets his, he shivers.

 

“Then marry me.”

 

He must be mistaken. “Sansa…” he says, his hands falling from her so he can step back. “Do not jest.”

 

“This is no jest,” she says desperately, a smile playing on her lips. “There is proof now, that you are my cousin. We can marry. I am a daughter of the House Stark. Marry me, and you will hold the North. The Northern Lords will bend the knee. Marry me, and ride to Dragonstone, bring back Dragonglass and speak to your aunt. Speak to Tyrion Lannister and make an alliance that binds the North and the South against the threat that lies beyond the Wall.” She steps forward, her hands taking his. “Marry me, and keep me from Lord Baelish. This cannot fail.”

 

“Truly… Is this what you want?” he asks carefully. _Father forgive me,_ he thinks. _I want this. Gods, do I want this._

 

She moves closer, her hand on his cheek. “You swore to protect me. This is how you can.”

 

He kisses her then, his arms pulling her closer and his traitorous body wanting more. He is not a Bastard, he knows. Still, he does feel like a Bastard, kissing a Lady that he should not be standing so close to. And yet... He cannot bring himself to care. Likewise, he does not feel like a dragon. He feels like a wolf in the cold whose coat keeps him warm. She burns him with her touch, her kiss sweet and warm like honey to a ravenous man. And in between their kisses she laughs, making him laugh, and he wonders briefly if he is allowed to be this happy when winter has finally come.


	16. Chastity ll : A Fool's Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... There will be a Part 3 to follow. When the muse demands it, you gotta give in, ya know. 
> 
> As always, thank you for your kind reviews. Three more chapters and this tale is done, me thinks.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Mentions of former non-consensual sexual assault and violence.

The Northern Lords do not take kindly to the news of Jon’s parentage.

 

Sansa listens as they all voice their concerns after Howland Reed swears by the Old Gods, that Jon Snow is indeed a Targaryen.

 

Lord Glover says how he knew her father was always an honourable man, but how the former Lord Stark would not have approved of a Targaryen ruling the North. Lord Manderly says that as much as he respects the memory of her father, he hid Jon’s blood for a reason. Clearly her father never intended Jon to claim his Targaryen name. Lady Mormont stays as silent as Jon when Lord Hornwood says that it would be disrespectful to all the Kings in the North who had come before, to let a Targaryen rule.

 

It is Sansa who stands then. Sansa, who ignores Jon’s stricken expression as she speaks of how her father raised Jon as a Northerner, how her father loved him as a son and how, regardless of his Targaryen heritage, the blood of the First Men runs through his veins. She speaks of his days as a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and how he did what no King in the North has ever done: unite those who live North of the Wall with those who live South of the Wall as well as the Black Knights who guard the Wall.

 

“Whether you want to admit it or not, My Lords,” she says, “My cousin is every bit a Stark as I am. And you can be assured that when we marry, our children will be as Northern as your own.”

 

The silence that greets this news is a long and troubled one. And Ser Davos, who had no knowledge that she would share such news, takes a while to clear his throat and speak.

 

“Are there any objections to this, My Lords?” he asks. “As the Lady says, they are cousins who both share the blood of Starks.”

 

“My Lords,” Jon says suddenly, standing beside her, looking every bit as solemn as her lord father once did. “I will not lie. I was raised as a Snow. I was raised as Eddard Stark’s son and as a half-brother to his children. I only know of the North. I know Winterfell and the Wall. I know what lies beyond the Wall and the threat that is coming. I know nothing of the South. The North is my home and it is my home I wish to defend. If you wish that I set aside my title, I will. But I hope that when the time comes, you will not deny me the chance to fight alongside you against the enemy that we will face. For winter has come, and the dead comes with it.”

 

Lady Mormont stands then, her words harsh but true. “It is not your competence we question, Your Grace. You are our Lord Commander, and when the time comes, House Mormont will follow your lead.” There are murmurings of assent before she continues. “We wish to know your intentions regarding your birthright. Do you wish to use Northern swords to claim the Iron Throne?”

 

“No,” Jon says, and the murmuring of agreement is louder. “I have never sought the Iron Throne, nor will I involve the North in its war,” he says, earning a hearty cheer. Sansa looks at him then, knowing the request the Hand of the Queen had made of Jon. “The North will govern itself,” Jon says, and the cheering is louder as a result.

 

“Then you _are_ the King in the North,” Lady Mormont says to loud cheers as she turns her attention to Sansa. “And your children will rule after you.”

 

The cheers get louder, the words ‘ _King in the North_ ’ and ‘ _Queen in the North’_ among them. It is not until after, when Jon and Sansa stand before a disapproving Davos Seaworth that the true weight of what they had promised, is brought to light.

 

“I wish you had told me of your intention to marry,” he says gruffly. “It is a smart decision to be sure, but I would have found you another way, if only to spare you both.”

 

Sansa’s gaze meets Jon’s, and the Onion Knight’s confused expression settles into one of understanding.

 

“Unless you don’t want to be spared,” he says softly, testing the words and seeing the way Sansa’s cheeks warm and Jon’s gaze falls with embarrassment. “I truly have seen everything,” Ser Davos mutters under his breath, before he clears his throat. “If this is what you want, I urge you to marry post haste.”

 

“Why?” Jon asks, and Sansa cannot help but feel slighted by his question.

 

“The Lords are here, the weather is not as dire as it could be. Marry now, have a big feast, enjoy the company of your bannermen and let them sing great songs in this hall of yours. These are times of war, Your Grace. Nothing uplifts the spirit more than a celebration, and nothing reminds men more of what they are fighting for.”

 

Jon looks at her then, and though he says nothing, his gaze questions her.

 

“A few of the Lords intend to leave on the morrow,” Sansa says cautiously. “We could request them to hold back their journey for a few days until we marry.”

 

“You do not doubt this decision, then?” Jon asks, carefully watching her mannerisms. Sansa would kiss him, had they been alone, but the Onion Knight stands before them both, and so she nods the way her mother once did when her father requested her approval in front of their guests.

 

“Then it is decided!” the Onion Knight says gruffly, effectively breaking the look that had passed between Sansa and her betrothed. “There is much to do, My Lady, Your Grace,” he says with a bow to each of them both, before he takes his leave quickly.

 

Sansa is silent for a while, and she hears Jon sigh tiredly before he speaks. “You do not approve of what I told the Northern Lords.”

 

Perhaps she should stay silent, but her anger is brought forth by his words and she finds that she cannot tame her tongue. “You should not have promised such a thing.”

 

“I didn’t lie,” Jon says earnestly. “I have no intention of sending our bannermen to fight a war that is not ours.”

 

“And what will you give Daenerys Targaryen in exchange for the Dragonglass you wish to beg her for?”

 

“I will give her my support.”

 

“Which will mean _nothing_ without men.”

 

“What would you have me do?” he asks her then, his words harsh. “Should I tell the Lords that I would send their people to their death for a battle that the North will reap no benefit in? Should I damn their sons to fight a battle their fathers don’t believe in?”

 

“That is _not_ what I’m saying.”

 

“Then what is your suggestion? What would you do in my position?”

 

At these words, Sansa falters. When she speaks again, her words are slow and controlled. “I don’t know much about battles, you know this. I don’t have the experience you do. But I _do_ know that she will not give you anything you ask for unless you give her something in return. You’re naïve if you think she won’t.”

 

His eyes narrow at her, her words angering him more than she could have ever expected. “I do not require men half as much as I require weapons made out of Dragonglass. That, I intend to get from her without issue.”

 

“How can you be so sure?”

 

“Because Tyrion Lannister is the Hand of the Queen, and I know he is not the type of man to willingly serve someone who is not generous.”

 

“You put too much trust in men,” she says bitterly.

 

“You don’t put enough.”

 

At this, she must agree that they are at an impasse. She knows that her words will not change his mind, and so she keeps her thoughts silent, but Jon steps closer, his countenance begging her to understand.

 

“You will be surprised, when the enemy attacks, how many people will raise arms alongside their foes to fight an enemy greater than their own. It is not just the North that will suffer, it is the Seven Kingdoms, and that alone will be enough to garner the support we need.”

 

“What if you’re wrong?” she asks finally, her words hard.

 

His shoulders fall, his expression tired. “Then I’m wrong. But I know I’m not. You haven’t seen what I have seen. You don’t know the desperate need for survival the living feels when facing the dead.”

 

“I know what desperation feels like.”

 

“Aye,” he says sadly. “Don’t we all?” His forehead gently meets hers and her eyes close as she feels his arms surround her. “Will you marry me even though you’re angry with me?”

 

Sansa’s laugh is short as her hands gently pull him closer. “If I were to postpone our wedding every time you anger me, we will never be wed.”

 

He kisses her then, deeply, and she feels the excitement his touch awakens in her. It is true, that his kisses make her heart beat faster with pleasure, but now her thoughts fall on their impending marriage, as well as the marriage bed they will share, and she cannot help but pull back, a deep fear surrounding her heart.

 

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks quietly, and Sansa shakes her head, her smile wide and untruthful.

 

“It’s nothing,” she says, because it surely must be nothing.

 

He does not believe her, she can see, but he steps back respectfully, and she misses his touch instantly, even as she finds herself able to breathe more freely.

 

“Tell me...” his voice is gentle, urging her to voice her concerns, and she feels the warmth of tears behind her eyes.

 

She thinks of Ramsay Bolton and everything that he ever did to her, and even though she knows Jon will never hurt her, she knows that he must touch her, the way Ramsay once did, and nothing scares her more.

 

“It’s nothing,” she says again. “Truly. I must tend to our guests.”

 

She flees then, the coward that she is, leaving Jon standing alone, confused and concerned. She hopes that the following days her fear will subside and she will be able to go to her marriage bed without dread. She hopes that she forgets the way Ramsay had touched her, the way that he hurt her, when Jon is close.

 

She does not realise that she is on her way to her bedchamber until she closes the door after her, tears falling unbidden down her cheeks. It still hurts, and it is a miserable thought to admit. Her bruises have faded and her body does not hurt the way it once used to. The cuts have healed and the marks left by his nails are no longer on her skin. But it still hurts.

 

She cries, for she does not pray anymore. And she hopes that this fear leaves her. She loves Jon, she knows. Yet, she does not know if his love will be enough to make her forget the pain she once endured.

 

She must be strong. She must be resilient. Women have suffered worse than her and they have survived. Surely, she will too.


	17. Chastity lll : Because There's Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a... "OMG! How am I supposed to write this???" sort of chapter.
> 
> Bear with me. 
> 
> And your reviews have been so encouraging, so thank you!

Jon does not quite understand the nervousness he feels, as the day of his wedding grows near.

 

He had been a man of the Night’s Watch, a man who had sworn his duty to protect the realm and all who dwell within its lands. He had been a man who had forsaken the right to have a family of his own, a choice he had never truly mourned until he had realised what that had entailed.

 

He had watched the Wildings carry their babes and had thought, regretfully, that he would never father sons or lie with a woman who claims him as her husband. There had been an emptiness in his chest at those moments, and he always thought back to how his Uncle Benjen had once told Jon that he might not have wanted to take the Black had he known what having a family truly means.

 

 _You were right, Uncle Benjen,_ Jon thinks as he watches the way Sansa bends low to talk to a child of one of the Wildings, whilst at the courtyard. He thinks of the children they will have. Perhaps their son will have his eyes and her hair. Perhaps he can name him after Robb, whilst their daughter can be named after Sansa’s mother. Such a thought displeases him half as much as he knows it would please her. He would love his daughter regardless of her name, he thinks. He would love her more, knowing how much her mother cares for such a name. He would love her even more, knowing that she was Sansa’s.

 

He thinks of the siblings he must give his first child, and then he thinks of how his half-brothers and sisters have become his cousins, how is father had become his uncle, how is aunt had become his mother and yet, Uncle Benjen has stayed his uncle, and for that, Jon is thankful.

 

Then he thinks of the last of his kin who lives; a Dragon Queen preparing a battle that he must beg leave from, only to then think of Maester Aemon, who shared his same blood. Had the man still lived, Jon would have ridden to him. He would have embraced the man, knowing that they were kin.

 

What would Robb think of this, he wonders. What would Father and Catelyn Stark think of him marrying their daughter? Surely, they would not approve. Arya! Would his little sister hit him and tell him to stop this nonsense, or would she embrace him and say she only wants his happiness? She would do both, he thinks. He would probably have a bruise to prove it.

 

Now, he simply watches Sansa. She is lovely, he thinks again, before her gaze meets his. He smiles, the thought of her in his bed, as his wife, causing him too much happiness to contain, and he sees the way her own smile is strained. Something is amiss, he knows. She has been quieter in her dealings with him, the closer the date draws near. As a result, more than once, he had asked if she really wanted to marry him, and each time she had kissed him softly and said that nothing would please her more.

 

Yet, her words do not match her eyes and he feels helpless for it.

 

When the day finally arrives, Jon’s thoughts on his family, and what they would say, increases until he can think of nothing else.

 

He spends the day in the training yard, fighting men with blunt—edged blades until Tormund comes in and knocks him on his arse with one swing. The Wildling laughs while Jon grunts as he gets to his feet, preparing for a sparring battle, only to have the Wilding grab him by his leather and lead him unceremoniously towards his bedchamber.

 

“You Southerners,” he says gruffly, as he practically drags Jon inside. “You make things more complicated than it needs to be.”

 

“Things _are_ complicated,” Jon says, even as he shakes the Wildling’s grip away from him.

 

Tormund laughs. “Bed the girl and be done with it,” he says as he turns to leave. “You’ve already stolen her.” He leers at Jon suggestively before slamming the door so hard it quivers.

 

It is then that Jon understands why the thought of his wedding night scares him so. Kisses, as passionate and deep as they are, are nothing compared to truly being with someone he had once called his sister. He thinks of Ygritte, and how he had been with her, and his heart aches with the need to be like that with Sansa. His body has that same need as well, and he thinks of how wrong this would be had she been his sister.

 

 _She is not my sister,_ he says to himself.

 

He repeats the words again and again as he has his bath and he prepares for the ceremony. He says the words amongst memories of Robb calling her sister whilst he wears his tunic and jerkin. He says the words amongst memories of Jon calling her his half-sister while he puts on his boots and his cloak.

 

 _You must always protect your sisters,_ Lord Eddard Stark once told Robb and Jon when they were not but four—and—ten years of age. _They can’t swing a sword like you, so you must be their swords, sworn to protect them. Understood?_

 

 _Yes, Father,_ Jon had said, even though he secretly knew he would protect Arya more than Sansa, as much as he was ashamed to admit it.

 

 _She is not my sister,_ he thinks with an aching heart as he makes his way to the Godswood, the greeting of the Lords and Lady who attend a distant thought. He thinks of how she has kissed him time and time again, of how she sighs when his lips brush her neck and how he has felt the shape of her breasts against his chest through their layers of clothing. He wants her; he cannot deny it. He _craves_ her.

Yet, when he sees her, as they finally meet, no thought stays in his mind. She is radiant and more beautiful than he has ever seen, whilst she stands in white and grey, her hair long and red as the leaves of the weirwood. All he can think of is having her in his bed, of her holding their child, before his eyes meet hers and his previous worry comes to mind.

 

She does not wish to marry him, he thinks, as he takes her hand and barely listens to the words of the maester. Her hand is stiff and cold, and when the ceremony is done and his lips meet hers, she pulls away too quickly for his liking.

 

The celebration that happens after is a boisterous one. The music is lively and the dancing and singing is like the feasts Jon remembers so well from years ago. He had been seated at the very end of the Hall, amongst the squires for almost every feast, but today, he sits with his wife above all others, and nothing has made him feel like a fraud more than this night, he thinks bitterly.

 

He had thought this would be a happy occasion. Yet, with all the smiles and graces Sansa portrays, he knows that she is unhappy. She dances with more than one Lord while he drinks more than he should. The hours go by too slow for his liking, and her disappointment in him becomes more apparent as a result. No matter, Jon thinks. It is fitting that he would have an unhappy marriage, as everything he ever wants becomes salt in sand the moment he is gifted it by the Gods.

 

When he wanted to be a man of the Night’s Watch, his uncle was taken away from him, his Father’s head was taken from his shoulders and his brother rode South to his death. When he wanted to become Lord Commander, he was killed by his own men, a betrayal he will never forget. And when he had collected an army to take back his home, his brother was killed as a ploy, as a game.

 

Truly, it made sense that when he wants a wife, to love a woman and be loved by her, to bring children of their blood into this world, she would not want him. Nothing makes more sense, he thinks, as he continues to drink.

 

Jon is not an angry drunk, or a loud drunk; he knows this. He has been told, more than once, how he becomes even more unbearably sullen even as colour blushes his cheeks. And so, when the time comes for the bedding ceremony, he says in no uncertain terms, his voice inviting no argument as he speaks clearly and calmly, that if any man touches his wife, he can be assured that their King would physically throw him out into the snow. There are murmurings of disappointment, but Sansa smiles, the first genuine smile he has seen in days directed towards him, and something in Jon’s heart aches.

 

When she leaves the Great Hall with her handmaidens, she places a grateful kiss on his cheek, and Jon wonders why she plays with him so.

 

He is meant to join her shortly after. He is sent from the Great Hall by boisterous men who yell inappropriate words of encouragement, and an Onion Knight who frowns with concern at his King’s behaviour.

 

Jon chooses to ignore all of this as he contemplates going to his own chambers, rather than hers. He thinks that she would not miss him, but a deeper need to speak to her, to demand to know why she is acting the way she is, finally forces his legs to take him to her bedchamber.

 

She is cruel, he thinks, when he opens the door to see her sitting on her bed in nothing but a long nightgown. Her hair falls freely, the auburn a stark contrast from the white clothing she wears. The light from the fire falls over her, the shadow and light enough for Jon to see the slight swell of her breasts. Jon cannot help but notice how her hand circles her wrist with nervousness and her bare toes stay buried in the furs on the cold, stone floor.

 

Her eyes widen when she sees him, and she looks at him in a way that he never thought she would ever look at him. Her eyes are wide with dread the moment he closes the door, and Jon wonders what he had done to make her fear him.

 

The silence between them is long, until Jon finally speaks.

 

“I—”

 

He falters, and he frowns. Perhaps he had drunk too much ale this night.

 

“I wished to know if you needed anything,” he says, a poor imitation of the words he truly wishes to say.

 

He watches the way her eyes give way to confusion. “No,” she says carefully, her words slow and strained. “Thank you.”

 

She says nothing more, and so he nods. “Sleep well, Your Grace.” He turns to leave, but her words stay him.

 

“Jon… It’s our wedding night.”

 

When he turns to face her, he wants nothing more than to ask after her behaviour the past few days. He wishes to know why she kisses him as if she wants him, but keeps her distance from him. He wishes to know why she eyes him as if she fears him, when she has said more times than he can count, how she trusts him more than any.

 

Instead, he feels a coolness creep into his tone as he says, “I don’t wish to bed someone who is not willing, Sansa. I will do no such thing, even if she is my wife.”

 

“I’m willing,” she says softly, almost desperately, and Jon sees the lie.

 

Her behaviour upsets him more than he can voice, and so he intends to leave, but then she is suddenly standing before him, and before Jon can protest, her hands are in his hair and her mouth meets his, lips desperately pulling on his, and he kisses her, the fool that he is. He kisses her almost roughly, almost angrily and breathlessly, hating the way his body is betraying him as he pulls her closer, his hands touching her in ways he has only dreamt of.

 

His hand cups her breasts, his thumb caressing her nipple over her nightgown, as his other hand grabs her waist and then her arse, pulling her even closer. But through his mind, through the breathless kisses, as muddy with ale as he is, he knows something is not right. Jon pulls away with a frown, his chest bursting with the need to breathe, and when she tries to kiss him again, he removes his arms from around her only to take her hands in his.

 

“Sansa,” he begins softly, his gaze falling on her delicate wrists, “why are you shaking?”

 

Her breath is as stunted as his, and his gaze rises to meet the panic in hers. She has no words, he knows, but when she tries to pull her hands away from him, his grip tightens. He knows what a woman feels like when she is willing in his arms. What he feels from her is not willingness, but fear. When she tries to pry her hands from him once again, he let’s her, his eyes sad.

 

“Do I scare you so much?”

 

He does not expect her to collapse into herself, for her arms to surround her body protectively and for tears to come into her eyes. “I’m trying,” she says softly, and the way her voice breaks, it pains Jon more than he thought she could ever hurt him.

 

“If I disgust you this much, you should not have married me,” he says softly, and he hates how broken he sounds. He had wanted this, he had wanted _her,_ and nothing seems more tainted than this greed of his.

 

Sansa let’s out a sob then, the tears falling freely as she shakes her head. “No, don’t think that. You mustn’t.”

 

“Mustn’t I?” he asks roughly, the pain evident in his voice.

 

He watches the way she quivers with sobs, the way her hand circles her wrist, the way it always does when she worries too much or she fears something. It is not until he thinks of why she always does this, of the bruise that had once been there but has now healed, does Jon finally understand what she has not been able to say.

 

He says her name softly, apologetically, before he embraces her, and she practically claws him in her haste to hold onto him tighter. “You should have told me.”

 

“I thought it would be over by now,” she whispers amidst sobs. “I wanted it to be.”

 

He sighs against her. “I’m sorry. I should not have pushed.”

 

She laughs then, softly against his shoulder amongst her tears and he smiles into her hair. “Jon, the last thing you ever did was push. I kissed you, didn’t I?”

 

His embrace tightens around her. He wishes he could apologise for touching her the way he did, for taking liberties when he should not have. Sansa speaks then, as if she can read his thoughts.

 

“I wanted you to touch me,” she says softly, a sniffle escaping her, as her face stays hidden in the crook of his neck. “I still want you to touch me.”

 

A shiver of need travels down the length of his spine, yet the hope Jon feels is short-lived. “Nothing will happen tonight,” he says gently, cursing himself for the disappointment he feels. He pauses, dreading the next words that he knows he must say. “Nothing will happen until you want it to.”

 

She is silent for a while, her body finally calm against his and her sobs hushed. “What if I never want to?” she whispers against him.

 

 _Gods help me,_ Jon thinks selfishly, before he places a light kiss against her crown. “Then you never want to.”

 

She pulls back then, wide blue eyes studying his. “You mean it,” she says with surprise.

 

“I do,” Jon says sincerely, surprised by his own words as he places his hand on her cheek only to wipe the wetness of her tears with his thumb. He wants her, he can never deny that, but he wants her to want him just as fiercely. The kiss he places on her forehead is gentle and long, before he pulls away and drops his arms from around her.

 

“You should rest. I will spend the night in my own bed.”

 

“No,” she says quickly as she stays him with a hand on his arm. His hope rises immediately, only to fall with her next words. “We cannot spend our wedding night in two bedchambers. The servants…”

 

He nods, disappointment deep in his chest. He turns to look at her bedchamber, his head hurting with the ale he had consumed. “I can sleep on the long chair,” he says.

 

He turns back to face her, and he sees the confusion in her eyes. “I hoped…” she begins haltingly, her expression almost shy. “You could share my bed.”

 

Again, his hope rises, and Jon chastises himself for having such thoughts. “I thought—”

 

Sansa shakes her head, her eyes falling from his. “He never spent the night. Not after. He always…” She falters, and Jon feels his fingers form into fists. But she reaches for his hand, and calms him with her touch. “This could be something we do. Something that is ours.” She steps closer, and Jon wants nothing more than to kiss her. “Please stay the night with me,” she says softly, her eyes falling on his lips.

 

He does not mean to kiss her, he thinks, but he does, and she responds the way she had before they were betrothed, with her arms encircling him warmly and her hands buried in his hair.

 

“Aye,” he mutters against her lips, amongst kisses. “I will stay the night.”

 

For this is all she must do. She only need make a request and kiss him for him to promise her whatever she desires. He thinks this as she leads him to her bed.

 

It takes them awhile, amongst kisses, for him to shed his leather and jerkin, his boots and his socks, and when her fingers reach for the knot of his tunic, he stops her. “Won’t you be uncomfortable?” she asks innocently, and he wonders if she knows what it truly feels like to lie with another, their flesh bare.

 

“I won’t be,” he says softly, before he kisses her once again. All he does is kiss her as they lie amongst the furs on her bed, his hands never straying from her waist, his hips far from hers so that she doesn’t feel his enthusiasm for so much more. She is soft against him, willing and pliant and he curses Ramsay Snow to the Seven Hells for the pain he had caused her.

 

“Must you go so soon?” she askes delicately, even as her hands caress the ends of his dark hair so that he shivers.

 

The tips of his fingers trace the bone at the base of her neck, watching as her eyes brighten and her breathing becomes shallow. “I will ride as fast as I can to Dragonstone.”

 

“And you will ride faster to come back to me,” she says, her fingers stilling his.

 

He feels her possessive need, and he smiles. “We still have a few days.”

 

Her eyes are bright as she looks on him with a sense of urgency. “Promise me that you will not spend too long away from Winterfell.”

 

“Aye,” Jon says softly, kissing the tip of her nose, the apple of her cheek and the side of her jaw. “I promise.”

 

She pulls him to her lips then, and the kiss is deep and wanton. They continue to kiss again and again. At first, their kisses are fast and heedless, but then they become gentler and deep, before they become lazily shallow and slower still.

 

Jon never thought he would one day fall asleep while gently kissing another, whilst his arms surround her and her hands stay cool against his skin. It is behaviour akin to a green boy, he thinks, not a man who was once Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch or a man who is called the King in the North.

 

And yet, when he awakes to gentle kisses on his cheeks and he laughs before toppling her over and kissing her back, regardless of how tender his mouth feels, Jon cannot help but think of how this is theirs, and theirs alone.


	18. Diligence l : Because It Takes Effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know sh*t is getting real when the rating has to be upped on the story. To those who have waited patiently for 17 chapters... Here's the smex (kinda). I hope I don't disappoint. 
> 
> Two more chapters to go, I think... *thinks*
> 
> For this chapter, I was inspired by the moment when Catelyn Stark apprehended Tyrion and Ned tells everyone that she did so under his orders, even though she clearly didn't. I like these Northerners with their loyalty towards redheads who do what they please. Also, marriage ain't easy.
> 
> Thank you everyone for your encouraging reviews.

Truly, she is besotted.

 

When the sun rises, Sansa is the Queen in the North, ruling beside her King as they prepare for his journey South. She tends to the matters of the castle with Ser Davos beside her, scratching Ghost behind his ears if he deigns to appear after hunting beyond the walls. She sees to the men and the horses, to the carriages and the food. She sees to those ailing from the cold and the stocks of provisions they must conserve.

 

She does not see Jon until supper, and that is a horrid affair. Her cheeks warm when he looks at her; her skin sings when he kisses her hand. She can scarcely eat more than a few mouthfuls, expectation thrumming in her veins whilst Jon calmly has his meal the way he always had, his attention drawn to Ser Davos and Tormund, the latter giving her suggestive looks and winks.

 

It is after supper when she waits for him in her bedchamber that has now become their own.

 

She need not trouble her ladies for it is Jon who undresses her himself. Jon, whose breath warms her cheek, his fingers teasingly light as they loosen her bindings. He removes each item of clothing from her slowly, his kisses light against her neck, her cheek, her chin, until she stands in nothing but her shift, her smallclothes, her woollen hose and garters.

 

She kisses him deeply then, her fingers curling into his hair and her body arching towards him. His touch is still light, teasing, and oh, how she despises him for it.

 

She then does the same to him, taking pleasure in the way his breath hitches when she kisses his ear, or the way he tries to capture her mouth with his, but she kisses the base of his neck instead. He assists her by disrobing until he wears only his tunic and breeches, and it makes her giggles how he lifts her easily to carry her towards their bed. She loves it more when he smiles because she laughs.

 

Her laughter stops when he kisses her, his weight resting comfortably above her. She thinks of that first night when they had done nothing but kiss, and the second night when she had lifted his hand towards her breast. He had pulled down her shift until his mouth was over her naked breast, wet and warm and oh so good. She had keened, her thighs rubbing together for something she did not quite understand until he had settled between her legs and she had pushed up against him.

 

The third night, she had wanted more. His hands burned her as they pulled her closer, having pushed up her shift until it was bunched around her waist and his fingers circled around the edge of the hose that rests around her thighs. She had rubbed against him and he had groaned against her neck, and it was the knowledge that she could give him pleasure that made her place her hand down his breeches and into his smallclothes, her fingers circling around him experimentally whilst he had shuddered against her.

 

He had rocked against her hand, groaning, his fingers moving closer and closer to her own smallclothes, and she had found herself lifting her hips and rubbing against him, wanting something more while they kissed deeply. He had spent into her hand, and even though his voice was loving against her ear, it had reminded her too much of another. And so when Jon apologised for treating himself first and promised to treat her next, she had stiffened when his hand had touched her between her thighs.

 

Sansa had spent that night, and the night after with his arms respectfully around her and his chest rising and falling innocently under her cheek. She had missed his touch vehemently. And she had thought of nothing else from the moment the sun had risen.

 

As tonight is the last before Jon is to depart, Sansa had been the one to kiss him when he had entered their bedchamber, and it had been Sansa who had begun removing her dress until Jon had gently set her hands aside and taken to undressing her himself.

 

Now as she kisses him, she cannot help but sigh happily beside his cheek, their movements practiced and comfortable. He is settled between her thighs, his hands respectfully on her waist. But she wants more, she realises quickly. She _needs_ more. When she moves his hand to her breast as she had once done, Jon understands and by pulling down the top of her shift, he kisses and licks at her breasts until her toes curl and her hand tightens at the base of his neck.

 

She needs more, she thinks, as she writhes under him. She feels his length just over her lower belly, and Sansa cannot help but move her hips so that she feels his length against the juncture of her thighs. Jon’s breath pauses, and Sansa _knows_ that she wants more. She is delirious with his kisses, with the way Jon nips at the bottom of her breast and the way he moves above her so that she feels his length over and over. She barely realises that she pulls up her shift, her hand leading Jon’s hand until he can touch her above her smallclothes.

 

For a moment there is a question in his eyes, but Sansa kisses him deeply. If she is to answer, she will have to think of it, and she does not want to think. She wants to feel, she wants to forget; she wants to be loved.

 

“You’re wet,” Jon whispers hoarsely against her ear, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing her centre, over her smallclothes.

 

Embarrassment colours her cheeks. “Is that bad?”

 

“No,” he says before he kisses her, his touch firmer. “ _Gods_ no,” he groans.

 

Sansa writhes under his touch, panting with every stroke he makes. She whimpers in dismay when Jon’s hand circles her thigh instead, and her eyes widen when he looks at her seriously.

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

Sansa falters, suddenly unsure. But she nods a moment later, even as her face betrays her confusion. Jon’s smile is kind and his kiss gentle before he pulls away from her. Her legs fall from his hips and bending her knees, she sits up and leans on her elbows to watch the way Jon kisses her knee.

 

“I would like to try something,” he says thickly, and something deep and dark and tight, pools inside her lower belly.

 

His eyes are on hers whilst he places another kiss on her leg, his lips lightly brushing the inside of her thigh. Sansa cannot help but twitch each time his lips move lower, her body heating up like a fever.

 

“What are you doing?” she whispers, when Jon’s lips pass the edge of her hose. His other hand having circled around her other leg, his fingers lightly tracing the same path downward until he is gripping her inner thigh under the warm wool of her hose. “Jon…” she whispers again, when his lips move even lower, surpassing the garter, and causing her whole body to tremble.

 

Jon raises his head, his eyes dark. “You trust me, don’t you?” he asks thickly, and Sansa can only nod, finding the way he is caressing her skin under the hose very distracting. She continues to watch as he moves lower still, and even though she suspects it, the first time she feels him kiss her above her smallclothes, she collapses, her eyes widening and her breath completely leaving her.

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

“I… No,” she says impulsively, her heart beating maddeningly, and she is rewarded with his tongue.

 

Sansa does not know quite what to do with herself. She cannot stop the sounds she realises she is making, nor can she stop the way her body practically leaps from the bed each time she feels the way Jon’s tongue licks a strip up her centre. She squirms under him, her hands fisting the bedding, and then his hair, and then the feather pillow under her head. She says his name over and over, and he attacks her with his mouth, moving faster, harder, his lips sucking and nipping, until his tongue touches a place that makes her moan so loud, she moves her head to the side until she can bury her face in the feather pillow.

 

When Jon moves her smallclothes aside so he can touch his mouth to her curls, Sansa loses all her senses. She arches against him, her voice louder as she says Jon’s name. She does not quite know if she wants him to stop or continue, because her thighs have tightened around him and her hands are now buried in his hair. She finds herself following his mouth when he releases her, but pulling away when his mouth is on her. She thinks she cannot take it anymore, but she wants _more_.

 

When she finally speaks, her voice is breathless. “Jon… I… I want…”

 

Jon leans over her, his fingers rubbing against her centre. Her body shivers and trembles, but it’s not the same. “What do you want?” he asks her. His voice is gentle, but there is an underlying need in him and Sansa cannot help but raise her hips so that his touch is firmer.

 

“I…” she says softly, and she shakes her head, for truly, she does not know. She has never felt such a need and she does not know how to appease it.

 

Jon leans even closer, his forehead resting on hers as she feels his finger against her centre. “Do you trust me?” he asks again, and this time, Sansa nods without a thought, her eyes closing as she feels his finger enter her slowly. She breathes deeply, her hands tightening around his dark curls as she feels the slight pinch. It does not scare her, however, and when Jon moves his hand so that his finger pulls out only to push back in, her hips buck against his hand.

 

When he enters a second finger, she feels the pinch worse, but the pain gives way to pleasure quickly, and she finds herself moving against his hand in a rhythm that is building something inside her. He kisses her then, the taste of his tongue different, and Sansa cannot help but be breathless when he sucks at her breasts whilst his hand moves faster. Her hips rise to meet his hand with every thrust, a warmth curling inside her until she finds herself whimpering through his kisses. She loses focus quickly, her head falling and her back arching, nonsensical words coming from her mouth. The moment his thumb touches the apex of her thighs, she comes undone, the coil inside her belly snapping as she shudders through a few glorious moments of immeasurable pleasure.

 

As the desire subsides, as she catches her breath and Jon takes his hand away so he can lightly caress her over her shift, Sansa shudders. There is a sense of embarrassment inside her chest and she buries her face under his chin to hide it. “I should not have…” she begins breathlessly, her cheeks red. .

 

“You were perfect,” Jon whispers thickly, as he drops light kisses on her hair, eyelids and cheeks.

 

But Sansa shakes her head, her skin too warm to breathe. “I was loud.”

 

“Aye,” Jon chuckles as he pulls her closer. “That you were.”

 

She tries to hit him then, only to have her wrist caught. Placing a light kiss to the inside of her palm, he kisses her mouth gently, her lips parting and her arms inviting. She can still feel him hard against her, and when she begins to remove his own bindings for his breeches, he stops her, like he always has.

 

“Not today,” he says gently, his eyes vibrant.

 

“I’m ready,” she says the words, but she is not yet sure if she is.

 

Jon knows, she thinks, from the way he looks at her. “I know,” he whispers, appeasing her, and she cannot help but wish he wasn’t quite so noble all of the time.

 

She kisses him, and he responds, but when her hands reach for his tunic he pulls away, his gaze apprehensive. “Sansa…”

 

“You ride South at first light,” she says softly. “Many who ride South never return.”

 

She watches the way his eyes lower in despair, and the way he smiles, despite his sadness. “You returned.”

 

“You can always send someone in your stead—”

 

“I _must_ go. You know this.” Sansa is silent, and Jon’s uneasiness increases. “Sansa…” he says again.

 

“I want a family,” she says quickly, and she feels her heartbeat quicken when his brows furrow in thought.

 

“These are times of war…” he says with confusion.

 

“Is that why you will not put a babe in me?”

 

Perhaps her words are too harsh, but he pulls away from her, and Sansa sits up as he does, her hands moving her shift to give her some semblance of modestly.

 

There is suspicion in his gaze and Sansa thinks she had been too willing. “Is this about Lord Baelish?”

 

Her eyes widen and he curses, standing from their bed to pace away from her.

 

“How…?” She stops, her hands fisting in her shift.

 

“You think I didn’t know?” he asks her harshly. “How could I not know that he was at Moat Cailin? I assumed that he was doing this at his own behest.” She looks away and he curses under his breath once again. “I should have known you had asked him to hold the Neck.”

 

“You didn’t listen to me,” she says again. “I _know_ you think that what happens in the South does not matter, but it does.”

 

“So you go behind my back?” he asks angrily. “You made a deal with him?”

 

“I didn’t,” she says softly. “He offered and I accepted. He still thinks that he wants me. But if… if I’m with child…”

 

Jon’s eyes widen, and he curses once again. Sansa flinches. She has never seen him so angry, and she had never known he could be this angry with her.

 

A moment later, his shoulders fall as the fight leaves him, and she watches the way he sits beside her stiffly on the bed. “I don’t want to fight,” he says softly, his voice defeated. “We _always_ fight.”

 

“I didn’t want to make you angry. I wanted to—”

 

“Do what was right,” he finishes for her, his voice flat.

 

Sansa nods, her hands aching to touch him, to take away the anger she had given him.

 

She winces when he speaks again, his voice harsh as he turns to face her. “You can’t just _do_ things like this and not tell me.”

 

“You would not have agreed,” she says desperately.

 

“Aye, I wouldn’t have. Is that not my right?”

 

“Father always said we must keep our enemies close.”

 

“I tried that once,” Jon says darkly. “It doesn’t work. You bring them close enough, they come close enough to slit your throat.”

 

She is silent for a while, as she watches the way he tiredly rubs at his eyes. “What will you do? Will you demand he leave Moat Cailin when you meet him?”

 

Jon says nothing for a while, until he sighs with defeat. “No. Let him hold the Neck for as long as he wishes. Winter will drive him South before too long.”

 

Sansa fears that he will choose to sleep in his own bedchamber, but Jon proves her otherwise.

 

Yet, it is the first night they spend in silence, without stories, kisses or laughter between them. It is the first night she spends without his arms surrounding her, her heart aching with the loss.

 

Jon sleeps without issue, and Sansa watches him, the space between them too vast, in her mind. She understands his anger, and his displeasure, but he does not understand the gravity of what might occur if they chose to ignore their enemies to the South. She might anger him with her choices, but so long as Winterfell is safe, so long as they are safe, she knows that her decisions will never change.

 

It takes her a while to fall asleep, and when her eyes finally rest, it feels like only a few moments before she finds herself blinking awake. She awakes to the sound of her husband—a thought still too foreign—as he places the fastenings of the leather he intends to wear for the journey. She watches his back for a moment, squinting at the lack of candlelight in their chambers while staying silent until he turns and stills when he sees her looking at him.

 

“Were you going to wake me?”

 

He looks away from her and she sits up. It is still dark out with the mild rays of daybreak upon them, and in the distance she can hear the sound of men reining in their horses.

 

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says gruffly, almost dismissively as he sits beside her to pull on his boots.

 

“That is very kind of you.” Her voice is flat, almost sarcastic, and Jon sighs before he turns towards her.

 

“If this is to work, you _must_ tell me things. You can’t keep them hidden from me.”

 

“I know.” Sansa rubs the sleep from her eyes before she meets his gaze. “I made a mistake and I admit to it. But I would do it again. When I suggested that you get Howland Reed to keep men at the Neck you said—”

 

“I remember what I said. We don’t have men we can leave out there. Not when the long winter has come.”

 

“That does not change the fact that Moat Cailin is a stronghold. It’s our first gate to the North and we _need_ to defend it.”

 

He shakes his head, his expression defeated. “Why do you keep saying this?”

 

She leans forward then, her hand on his arm to keep him talking to her. “You are a soldier, you said it yourself. You are the Lord Commander and the General and that is what we need for the battle of the North. But the South does not always fight their battles with men. I have learned things; things that I wish I did not know. Let me be useful. You can handle the North but let _me_ handle the South. I know more of the people in the South than you, Jon, you cannot deny that.”

 

She sees the way his eyes lighten to the thought, before they darken with anger. “And Littlefinger?”

 

“He will be close for as long as I have use of him.”

 

Jon does not look appeased, and so she leans even closer.

 

“Let him come,” she says, before she smiles, her hand taking his. “Let him try. I belong to you now.”

 

The look he gives her makes her heart beat faster, and then he kisses her. His kisses are quick, hard, his hands rising to her hair to keep her near as her own fingers pull him closer by his leather. She finds herself leaning back, pulling him with her, before the unmistakable sound of knocking makes him pull his lips from her throat.

 

“It’s time, Your Grace.” The unmistakable sound of Ser Davos carried through to their chamber. “The men are ready.”

 

Jon’s lips meet hers. “I must go,” he whispers, even as his lips pull against hers over and over again.

 

Sansa nods. “Of course.” And then she kisses him deeply, a thrill going through her in the way he grips her waist whilst his tongue practically battle hers. The kiss gets deeper, his hands splaying around her arse and it is with a groan that Jon finally disentangles himself from her.

 

“Will you wait until I change?” she says breathlessly, watching the way he stands and collects his scabbard. “I would like to see you off.”

 

“No, don’t.” His voice is rough, and even though his words hurt her, the way he looks at her makes her think otherwise. “If you come out there, I might never leave.”

 

He bends low to kiss her again, and Sansa meets his brief kiss before pulling away with worry. “Do you promise to be safe?”

 

“Aye,” he says with a frown, his hand moving her hair from her cheek. “Do you promise to be careful?”

 

She knows he means her to be careful from one particular person, and so she nods, before their lips meet, and she feels the familiar sting of tears behind her eyes. There are words she must say, words that she has never told anyone and truly meant it. But instead she smiles, and he smiles sadly before his lips meet her crown and he kisses her forehead as if she is precious to him.

 

They don’t say another word as he leaves her with one, final smile, as her own smile falls the moment the door closes after him.

 

She listens carefully to the sound of men mounting their horses, of carriages groaning as they leave Winterfell. She listens until all she hears is silence, and then the tears fall freely.

 

She misses him fiercely, she knows. He is her last reminder of what life was like before they had left Winterfell, and now she has no one.

 

A whine and the sound of scratching at the door, stops her thoughts. Curious, Sansa wipes at her cheeks and opens the door to find Ghost watching her with red eyes. She laughs, and he comes into her bedchamber, a cold nose nudging her hand before he jumps onto her bedding easily and curls into himself at the foot of her bed.

 

She wishes she had known that Jon was leaving Ghost to stay by her side so she could have thanked him. She makes her way to the bed to hug the direwolf instead, her thoughts on Lady, on her father, her mother, Robb and Rickon. She thinks of Arya and Bran, and how their wolves had played together. Sansa thinks of Jon trying to bid her farewell as he was about to leave for the Wall, but how she had dismissed him with barely a few words only sufficient to be civil. She thinks of the way he fights in the training yard, the way he listens solemnly to the Lords and the way his head had been between her thighs, the thought enough to make her blush.

 

She had been horrible to him, and he had been patient. She had been demanding and he had raised an army to take back their home. Truly, Sansa never thought that she would love a boy who always took Arya’s word over hers.

 

She hopes that he will come back to her. And silently, she prays the same.


End file.
